


House of Cards

by akat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3407498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akat/pseuds/akat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pull one card out, and everything falls. For Buffy, it all started the night her mother walked into that London pub all those years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Selfishly Selfless

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own BtVS or Harry Potter.   
> Spoilers: Harry Potter through Order of the Phoenix, BtVS through Season 1. Both will be AU after that.

+++

**London, 1979**

As Joyce walked down the darkened street, she hugged her coat to her body. It was useless, though. The damp London air managed to seep through the thick material anyway, chilling her to the bone.

Joyce sighed. Her last night of Spring Break was really turning out to be a major bummer – though, if she were honest with herself, even the nicest weather wouldn’t change things. Rain or shine, she would have to get on a plane tomorrow and get back to reality. To Hank.

She sighed again. Hank’s proposal shouldn’t have freaked her out like this, where she had to fly halfway around the world before she felt like she had enough room to breathe; she knew that. It should have been a no-brainer. She and Hank had been dating for over a year now, and he was a good guy with an incredible future. All her friends adored him. Even her parents thought he was solid. And he was. She was lucky to have him, and according to everyone on the planet, their children together would be little blonde angels.

It made Joyce want to puke. And then run for the hills. And then maybe puke again, just for good measure.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Hank. She did – even though he could be _so_ uptight sometimes, especially now that he had decided to go pre-law. It was just that the thought of settling down terrified her. Though she had put some of her wilder teenage times behind her, part of her still felt craved adventure and... excitement.

That was why, while her girlfriends went to San Diego over break and Hank went off with his friends to Vegas, Joyce had come here to London, to focus on the only thing she was sure about; her love of art. 

Over the course of the week, she had started at the National Gallery and worked her way down to the smallest gallery, and she had loved every minute of it. Each painting, each sculpture seemed to call to her, as if she stared at it long enough, it would reveal its secrets to her. They never did, of course, but that was part of the fun.

And now it’s all over, Joyce thought miserably.

Or was it?

As the familiar silhouette of her hotel came into view, Joyce impulsively veered sharply to the left down one of the smaller side streets. She had no specific destination in mind, not until she spotted the pub a few blocks later. Before she could talk herself out of it, she ducked inside.

The place was crowded. As Joyce stood in the doorway, she couldn’t see a single spot to sit. That didn’t stop her from pushing her way through the crowd toward the front of the bar, though. She was cold, it was her last night in London, and she was going to enjoy it if it killed her. 

Soon, she was surrounded on all sides by the press of bodies, the smell of beer, and the sound of tipsy conversations – and among those, there wasn’t a single British accent. Between that and all the ‘Ye Olde’ signs everywhere, she guessed it was a tourist bar.

That made her pause. On the whole, tourist bars tended to be more expensive, and going to museums all week hadn’t been cheap. Just as she thought about leaving, though, she saw it; any empty spot on the far side of the bar counter.

Deciding it was a sign, Joyce quickly headed for the seat before it disappeared. It wasn’t until she was within a few steps of it that she realized why it was empty; sitting on the stool next to it was a guy.

Outwardly, there was no reason all the customers should have been avoiding him. He looked like he was about her age; not too hard on the eyes, either, with dark hair, grey eyes, and a lean, muscular build. Despite all this, though, there was something about him, something… dangerous in his eyes. It made someone think twice before getting too close. 

Except for Joyce anyway.

It was no skin off her nose. Bad boys never scared her; in fact, it used to be just the opposite, before Hank. Besides, she was there for the drinks, not the company.

Without the slightest hesitation, she slid onto the empty stool to his left. He immediately looked over at her. Although his expression was blank, Joyce got the distinct impression he was willing her to move, which he probably was.

She took off her coat and gave him a sunny smile.

His jaw clenched in response, and for a minute, she thought he was going to tell her to take a hike. Instead, he simply went back to staring at the full shot glass sitting in front of him.

Joyce rolled her eyes. A small, perverse part of her wanted to needle the guy for being such a creep. Luckily for him, she wanted a drink more. When she looked down the bar, however, she saw that the bartender was busy with customers at the other end.

With a sigh, Joyce sat back in her chair and settled herself in for a wait.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang next to her, one that practically had her coming off her seat in surprise.

She spun around, ready to level her neighbor with a glare. She was sure that he had slammed his shot glass onto the counter like that on purpose, just to be rude. Then she got a look at his face.

He was staring at the shot glass like it had tried to poison him or something, his lips still curled up in a mixture of shock and disgust.

The giggle escaped before she could stop it.

Not surprisingly, he didn’t like this, and he turned around on his stool to face her, his eyes narrowed dangerously as his mouth twisted into a snarl.

Joyce was unimpressed. “You should be careful, or your face might freeze that way."

Instead of getting even angrier like she thought he would, his entire face went slack, as if he couldn’t believe she had spoken to him like that. Then he caught himself and spun back toward the bar, ignoring her again as he raised his hand to flag down the bartender.

To Joyce’s annoyance, especially considering her own failure, the bartender came over right away.

Then she realized why. As the bartender approached, her neighbor pulled out a fistful of cash. She watched in fascination as he fumbled with it for a few seconds, strangely clumsy with the bills, before he finally tossed a handful of crumpled notes on the counter in frustration; much more than a dozen drinks would cost, let alone one.

Then, though it clearly physically pained him to say so, he said, “Another whiskey.”

It was then, at the sound of his voice, that Joyce realized he was British.

“And what can I get you, love?”

Distracted, it took Joyce a minute to realize that the bartender was talking to her. 

Embarrassed, she turned her attention toward the bartender as she tried to think of what she wanted to get – firmly ignoring the smirk she received from a certain someone.

She usually stuck with Strawberry Hill or screwdrivers, but this was her last night in London, so she wanted something more exciting.

“Gin and tonic, please.”

The bartender nodded and began getting their drinks.

Still feeling a little self-conscious, Joyce busied herself as she waited, pulling out her money to pay for her drink, making sure to put enough aside so that she could pay for a cab to the airport the next day.

When the bartender came back a minute later with both drinks in hand, Joyce put her money on the counter. Then she picked up her glass and immediately took a sip, giving a small shiver as the sharp bite of alcohol hit her taste buds. After a few more experimental sips, she decided that she liked it.

As she began drinking in earnest, she couldn’t help but look over to her right again.

She watched as the guy went through the exact same ritual as he had the first time; swallowing the whiskey as fast as he could, slamming the glass down in disgust, then staring at it as if he couldn’t believe something could really taste that awful.

Unlike last time, however, this last part didn’t last long. Instead, he swiveled around on his stool a second later and glared, like he was daring her to laugh again.

Joyce refused to take the bait. Besides, she felt a little bad about laughing before. The stuff really did taste terrible.

“I’m not a fan of whiskey, either,” she confided.

The dangerous edge in his eye vanished then, and though the glare remained, it was aimed at the glass and not her.

“When they said whiskey I thought... but this is _revolting_ ,” he muttered, talking more to himself than to her.

Then he raised his hand for another drink.

Joyce rolled her eyes. Men could be so stupid sometimes.

“You know, you could try something that goes down a little easier,” she said.

He glanced over at her, wary but definitely interested in what she had to say. “Like what?”

She shrugged. “Lots of stuff,” she said, as she wracked her brain for drinks he would like. “Maybe a Kamikaze?”

He gave a small, humorless laugh at this. “Kamikaze, eh? I like the sound of that,” he said. Then he looked at the bartender, who had just come back. “A Kamikaze… for me and for her.”

The bartender nodded. “Right, two Kamikazes, coming right up.”

Joyce hadn’t expected _that_. Torn, she looked back between the guy next to her and the retreating bartender. If it had been anyone else, she would have thought that he had gotten the wrong idea about her. But this guy had already turned back toward the bar, basically ignoring her again. So instead of objecting like she knew she should have, she said nothing.

They sat in silence as the bartender prepared their drinks. When they finally arrived, Joyce held her shot up in a mini-cheers before she downed the drink, giving a small shudder at the sharp, but delicious, burn.

When he saw that she didn’t keel over and die, he lifted his glass to his lips and drank.

He was expecting the worst, Joyce could tell, and by the look on his face, he didn’t love it. But he didn’t hate it, either. He just looked…really, really thoughtful.

“Not that bad, right?” she prodded.

He looked up then, and Joyce found herself being studied with the same scrutiny.

“No, not at all,” he finally said.

Joyce flushed and looked away. She had a feeling he was talking about more than the drink. 

When she looked back up, he had turned around toward the bar again, the scowl back in place.

Still, a minute later, he raised his hand, and two more drinks appeared before them.

“I can’t,” Joyce protested.

He shrugged. “Then don’t. If you don’t drink it, I will,” he said indifferently.

It wasn’t a line. He really meant it. That was the only reason why, after a little hesitation, Joyce took it.

She quickly downed it, washing it down with her gin and tonic.

By this time, she had given up all pretense of not staring. She could admit it; the guy was a mystery, sitting here out of place in the middle of a tourist bar with a British accent so fancy it sounded like he should be having tea with the Queen yet obviously looking to get blitzed even if it killed him.

Who was this guy and what was his story?

Finally, as he caught he bartender’s eye and ordered two _more_ shots, she was unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

“Why are you here? At this bar?” she asked. 

At first she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then, maybe because the alcohol was starting to work its magic, he shrugged. “I wanted to go somewhere no one would find me.”

Joyce nodded, instantly understanding where he was coming from. “I know the feeling,” she commiserated.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You? From what?”

Joyce started to say her boyfriend; it was on the tip of her tongue, but something made her stop. All week she had been telling herself that she came to London to get some breathing room from Hank, and in her mind, it sounded great. Now that she was about to say it out loud to someone else, though, she realized it wasn’t very fair to Hank – and it wasn’t very honest.

“Myself.”

“And has it worked?” he asked, gazing at her so intently, it made her head spin a little.

“No. But then, it never really does, does it?” she mused. This drew a small, almost resigned sigh from him. “So what are you trying to escape from?”

“The inevitable,” he said tersely.

She raised her eyebrow at this. "Knowing it's inevitable," she pointed out.

His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Exactly."

“Heavy,” she murmured. Trying to lighten the mood a little, or maybe even cheer him up or something, she added, "So what? Are you like some Greek tragic hero or something?"

But his expression only grew darker. "Tragic, maybe. Hero? Definitely not. It's too bloody late for that. Besides, I’m not the selfishly selfless type.”

Joyce cocked her head to the side as she thought it over. “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. But I think it counts for something that whatever’s going on bothers you so much.”

She felt her breath catch at the look her gave her, the anguish, the anger, the _hope_.

Just then, the bartender appeared before them and set down their shots, breaking the moment as he plunked the glasses down together and rushed back to the other customers.

They both reached for their glasses at the same time. As they did, their hands brushed.

Joyce gave a small gasp at the bolt of electricity that ran through at this small touch. She knew he felt it, too, because he yanked his hand away like he had been burned.

How he went from creep to attractive in two seconds flat, Joyce had no idea. She would do her best to ignore it, though.

“I should go,” she said abruptly.

Without looking over to see his reaction, she quickly threw back her last shot, pulling on her jacket as she practically leapt to her feet.

It was a mistake. While she had been sitting, she had felt fine, almost sober. When she shot up off her stool so quickly, however, the alcohol finally started to kick in, and the world began to sway. To make things worse, her arms were still caught up in her jacket, so she had no way of regaining her balance.

Before she could fall and make a total fool of herself, two arms shot out and grabbed her.

Joyce looked up – right into a pair of grey eyes that were twinkling with genuine amusement and none of the bitterness they had before.

“Good to see you’re not always so serious,” she grumbled, feeling the heat climb into her face.

For some reason, this made him burst into laughter. “No, that’s my brother. I’m Regulus,” he explained as he grinned down at her. 

It changed his whole appearance. He looked young and carefree – and very handsome. Once again, Joyce felt the tug of attraction, and she became extremely aware that she was still in his arms. He must have seen it on her face, because the smile on his face faded as he gazed intently at her.

“Could I walk you back to your place?”

Joyce inhaled sharply at his question.

She knew she should say no. She had Hank, her boyfriend who had proposed to her just a week ago. She needed to walk out that door as fast as she could. Anything else would be wrong – wrong and impulsive and _exciting_.

The worst part was that she couldn’t blame it on the alcohol. Though she was definitely tipsy, she knew exactly what she was doing when she looked up at him through her lashes and nodded.

And when his eyes darkened at her answer, she knew exactly what was going to happen, and she wanted it more than anything else.

He was like one of those paintings, she realized, the ones that had called to her all week. She doubted that he’d reveal his secrets to her, either. But she would have fun trying.

Without breaking contact, he slid his hands down her arms until he was grasping her hands. Then he led her out of the bar without another word.

+++

**California, eight weeks later**

Joyce stared at her doctor in disbelief.

Pregnant.

She was _pregnant_.

Six to eight weeks, by the doctor’s estimation, which meant that it could have happened right after she had accepted Hank’s proposal, or before that, when she was in London…

It was Hank’s baby. It had to be.

But what if it wasn’t? 

Joyce fought the urge to cry. She had no idea how to get in touch with Regulus, if it was his baby. She didn’t even know his last name. Besides, he obviously had his own issues to work out. Chances were he didn’t even want a child. And she loved _Hank_.

Joyce shook her head. No, this baby was Hank’s. She refused to let herself think otherwise. She would marry him and be the best wife and mom she possibly could be. It was the right thing to do – for everyone. 

Oh, she wasn’t fooling herself. She wasn’t being – how had Regulus worded it? – ‘selfishly selfless’. If anything, she was just trying to keep her one act of selfishness from ruining four lives. But it was the best she could do.

+++


	2. House of Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: HP through Order of the Phoenix. Pre-BtVS series.  
> A/N: So... Regulus died in 1979 and Buffy was born in 1981. Instead of making Joyce have an unreasonably long and highly suspicious pregnancy, I’m moving Buffy’s date of birth up a year to 1980. All BtVS events will be moved up accordingly. For example, she was Called in 1994, not 1995, and she started her sophomore year at Sunnydale in 1995, not 1996. HP timeline stays the same.
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos! They made my day. :)

+++

_Los Angeles, 1993_

Joyce studied her reflection in the mirror. She was dressed, her hair was done, her makeup was applied—

Earrings, she realized. She needed earrings.

She quickly opened her jewelry box and began rummaging through it; however, she dismissed every pair almost as soon as she had laid eyes on it. None of them seemed to work. 

Joyce frowned. It was a big night for Hank. His firm was hosting a cocktail dinner for its biggest clients. Already poised to make partner, this could possibly seal the deal for him, which meant she needed to look and act perfectly tonight.

A part of Joyce chafed at playing the role of Stepford wife, but she couldn’t afford to pay any attention to it. This was too important, to both Hank _and_ to their marriage. For while she knew the stress of making partner wasn’t the reason for all the problems between them, it certainly hadn’t helped. Before one of the senior partners had pulled Hank aside and told him about this opportunity, they argued a lot; now, however, it seemed like they were fighting all the time. Therefore, it stood to reason that tonight could just be the thing they needed to turn their relationship around. 

To do that, though, she first needed to find the right pair of earrings. 

Feeling a little like a woman possessed, Joyce began emptying out the contents of the box onto the table. Just when she was starting to get desperate, she remembered a particular pair of earrings she kept tucked away in their own little compartment for safe keeping.

With a sound of triumph, she pulled out the pair of diamond teardrop earrings – the ones Hank had gotten her for their tenth anniversary – and carefully put them on. Then she looked at her reflection again. This time she was satisfied with what she saw.

Joyce rose to her feet. She had planned on checking in with Buffy before she left; she felt like she barely saw her daughter these days. When she glanced at the clock, however, she saw that she didn’t have time. It was already seven thirty, and the dinner started at eight. She was surprised Hank hadn’t come upstairs to hurry her along yet.

Joyce grabbed her purse off the vanity table and hurried across the bedroom toward the door. 

As she passed by the small entertainment center they had in their room, she noticed that Hank had left the TV on once again. It was a bad habit of his, turning it on some news station to watch the stock ticker tape at the bottom screen on mute and then forgetting about it.

With a long-suffering sigh, Joyce grabbed the remote to turn it off. Just as she was about to press the power button, however, a picture flashed across the screen, one that made her heart stop.

It was the face of a man, one that bore an uncanny resemblance to someone she had tried her best to forget.

Almost frantically, Joyce turned the volume up.

_“… London, authorities are still on the hunt for mass murderer Sirius Black. The fugitive, responsible for death of 12 people, is presumed armed and dangerous. And in other news—”_

Joyce sat down on the edge of her bed, completely numb. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Regulus. But he looked just like him. And that _name_. Sirius. It was very unusual and yet somehow familiar... 

Then she realized why, and she almost fell off the bed in shock. 

As much as she had convinced herself that that night hadn’t happened, she still remembered every bit of it, like it was just yesterday – including a particularly weird bit of conversation. 

_“Good to see you’re not always so serious.”_

_“No, that’s my brother. I’m Regulus.”_

Joyce suddenly found it difficult to breathe. The wanted man on the TV wasn’t _him_ , but it was almost just as bad. It was his brother. It had to be, which meant—

“Joyce, are you ready to— Joyce! What’s the matter?”

Joyce gave a start as Hank suddenly appeared in front of her, a frown on his face.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” she said, plastering a smile on her face. When she saw that he wasn’t buying it, she sighed. “I… I just have a small headache, but I’ll be fine, I promise.”

She held her breath as Hank looked her over.

“Well, as long as you’re sure,” he said slowly. 

Then his face relaxed into a smile and he gave her a small peck on the cheek, mindful of her makeup. 

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Joyce felt a small flutter of hope. He hadn’t looked at her like that in weeks.

“You look beautiful,” he continued. “I’ll be the envy of everyone there. Come on, let’s go or we’ll be late.”

Then he held out his hand, a soft smile still on his face.

Joyce made up her mind right then and there.

Tonight was Hank’s night. It was not the time for her to wallow in her guilt for that one indiscretion all those years ago before they were even married. Besides, she didn't know for sure that this Sirius Black was Regulus' brother, and even if he was, she wasn't positive Regulus was Buffy's biological father. And while seeing Sirius Black’s face was a jarring reminder of the past, that’s all it was – the past. It had no effect on the future whatsoever, which meant there was no reason to dredge up ancient history now, or ever, not when it would only hurt everyone involved. Buffy was her daddy’s little girl, _Hank’s_ little girl, whether it was by blood or not.

As Joyce let herself be led out of the room, she firmly put all thoughts of Sirius Black, Regulus, and that night in London aside, actually believing that everything was going to be okay.

+++

_Los Angeles, 1995_

Joyce sat in her kitchen, staring at the bowl of yogurt in front of her.

She had been sitting there for a better part of an hour, trying to force herself to eat, but it wasn’t going to happen. She had no appetite whatsoever. She hadn’t, not since she and Hank put Buffy in that psychiatric hospital and left her there.

Joyce's hands curled into fists at the thought of her daughter, locked in a room as doctors poked and prodded her, remembering the way Buffy had pleaded with them not to leave her there.

Needing to do something, anything, to get her mind off of the current situation, Joyce abruptly stood up and walked over to the kitchen sink with her bowl of yogurt, thinking she would do the dishes. When she got there, however, she saw that the sink was empty.

Of course it was. Buffy was locked away and Hank was in the office, pretending there weren’t any problems at home.

She dropped the bowl with a clatter, the sound echoing through the large, empty house.

Defeated, Joyce put her head in her hands and cried.

She cried for Buffy, stuck in that awful place. She cried for Hank, who would rather bury himself in work at the office than deal with the problems with their daughter and their marriage. But most of all, she cried for the overwhelming guilt she felt at her role in all of it.

For sixteen years, she had denied the possibility that Buffy’s father was anyone but Hank. Even after seeing that picture of Sirius Black on the TV a few years ago, she kept her silence out of guilt and shame. And now Buffy was paying the price. 

Sirius Black was a mass murderer. Obviously, something wasn’t right in his head. And Regulus himself had had a dark side. It was partly what had drawn Joyce to him all those years ago.

What if there was mental illness in the family? What if Buffy had something passed on to her, something that could be treatable, or worse, could have been _avoided_ , if only they had known?

Maybe if she had really thought about that news story when she had first heard about it, she could have done something. 

Joyce felt another wave of guilt wash over her, and it almost brought her to her knees. Before she could fall, however, she grabbed the edge of the sink, her knuckles turning white from the effort.

Wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to help Buffy. There was no changing the past, either. She could only move forward and try to fix things as best she could.

With a new sense of determination, she walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. As soon as she heard the dial tone, she hit ‘0’.

“London, England, please. Police Headquarters.”

As she waited, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. 

Buffy was the most important thing in her life. For her, Joyce would finally face the demons of her past, no matter what the consequences would be.

+++

_Ministry of Magic_

Kingsley Shacklebolt put his quill down and stretched. He had finally finished his reports. It was time to knock off for the day.

As he stood, however, a bell began to ring in his office; first softly, then rising in pitch until it was causing quite the racket. At the same time, he saw a quill over in the corner begin to move, scratching out words on a piece of parchment in a most frantic fashion.

Kingsley frowned. That particular quill was enchanted, connected to the Muggle authorities’ phone line to record any calls mentioning the name ‘Sirius Black’ as a way of tracking sightings of the fugitive in the Muggle world. 

Those first few months Black had escaped from Azkaban, the quill moved almost non-stop. They had had to pull wizards from the other departments just to man it, as the Aurors themselves were running around, investigating all the leads it produced.

None of them had panned out, of course. It was mostly neighbors reporting each other, either disgruntled with one another or extremely paranoid about new additions to the neighborhood. And of course there had been a few tips that were just off the wall. His personal favorite was the caller who had claimed Black was masquerading as the lead singer in a popular music band, which at the time was headlining a large Muggle event called T in the Park, or something like it – though perhaps some of that stemmed from the fact that Dawlish had been the Auror assigned to that call.

Eventually, as the months went by, the calls had come in less and less frequently, dwindling to the point where the quill didn’t move at all most days. When that had happened, the quill had been moved to Kingsley’s office, as he was lead Auror on this case. 

It turned out to be a stroke of fortune, when soon after the truth about Black had been revealed. 

Quite a fantastic story that had been, but Dumbledore had vouched for the man. Now Black’s family home was being used as headquarters for the reconstituted Order of the Phoenix, with Black himself taking up permanent residence there – in every sense of the word. Kingsley had it on good authority that Dumbledore had ‘requested’ that Black stay indoors; however, Black was brash and impulsive, which meant he was not always inclined to follow orders.

As Kingsley made his way over to the quill, he feared that Black had decided to go on a jaunt, despite Dumbledore’s orders, and been spotted, to boot.

He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the quill to finish writing. As soon as it had stilled, he quickly picked up the parchment and scanned it. He felt an immense sense of relief when he saw that the call was from the States, of all places, a country that Black was most decidedly not in. As he read further, however, his eyebrows rose in shock.

Whoever had called was not just inquiring about Sirius Black and whether he had been captured yet. The caller was also asking about his brother, Regulus – a Death Eater who had been dead for sixteen odd years.

Without delay, Kingsley pocketed the parchment and swiftly made his way out of the Ministry. It appeared as though his night was far from over, as a visit to Hogwarts was now clearly in order.

+++


	3. Through a Glass Darkly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos!

+++

_Los Angeles, 1995_

There were few things that took Albus Dumbledore by surprise. This was neither an exaggeration nor arrogance on his part; it was simply a fact. So when something well and truly shocked him, he took it quite seriously. 

It was for this reason that he found himself standing under the overhang of a porch on the outskirts of Los Angeles, California, in a time when he could scarcely afford to leave Britain. Sending another member of the Order had never been an option.

As he studied the home before him, he knew he had been correct in his decision. 

The entire property was expansive and well-cared for -- and there wasn’t a stitch of magic at work. The pristine front garden was the result of manual labor, not a charm, and the expensive automobile parked in the driveway was precisely as it looked. This was without a doubt a Muggle home. 

And yet, according to Kingsley Shacklebolt, a woman who resided here had recently made inquiries to the London authorities about Sirius _and_ Regulus Black.

It was curious, to say the least.

Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, Dumbledore raised his hand and knocked on the door.

Almost immediately, he heard shuffling on the other side, followed by the footfall of someone approaching the door. A moment later, he found himself face to face with a woman.

She was quite lovely – and quite obviously in distress. Her eyes had dark circles under them, as if she had not slept well in weeks, and though her skin was tanned, her pallor was quite pale underneath.

Dumbledore gave her a gentle smile, not wishing to startle or alarm her.

“Good afternoon, madam. I’m sorry to trouble you, but it appears I’ve gotten a bit turned around. Could you please tell me how I might find the freeway?” he asked.

He prepared himself to cast a Confundus Charm if she noticed that there was in fact no car behind him, which he would presumably use to reach said freeway.

It was not necessary, however. She was clearly distracted, her movements almost robotic as she stepped out of the doorway and began instructing him how to reach the entry slip-road.

Dumbledore did not listen. Instead, as she spoke, he delved into her mind using Legilimency. Though it was quite intrusive and not usually employed on Muggles, he had no choice. He needed to extract any and all information quickly, with as little detection as possible, for if the American Ministry got wind of his presence here without their knowledge, particularly considering the nature of his business, it would cause some… awkwardness.

Images and feelings immediately flooded his mind. One stood out more prominently than the rest, however; one that took place inside a kitchen. 

Dumbledore could hazard a guess as to why. 

Emotions were pouring off of it so intensely, it was staggering. 

Anger. Bitterness. Regret. All of which were mirrored in the face of the man who stood before her. 

“What did you expect, Joyce?” the man said quietly. “That I could just forget the fact that you cheated on me with some guy you met in London and never told me? That you’ve lied to me for sixteen years about my own daughter? It’s not like it’s been a bed of roses for the past few years anyway.”

The woman -- Joyce -- hung her head as a feeling of immense sorrow overwhelmed her. “I know,” she said quietly.

When it appeared as though she wasn’t going to say anything else, the man walked toward her. He stopped short before he actually reached her, however, and laid a piece of paper on the countertop. 

Dumbledore could see the words “Petition for Dissolution of Marriage” emblazoned on the top.

Joyce glanced at it briefly before she looked away. 

The man’s lips tightened into the thin line. Still, he said nothing and simply turned around, clearly intending to leave. Before he could exit the room, however, Joyce looked up.

“Hank,” she called out, a bit desperately.

It stopped Hank in his tracks. Ever so slowly, he turned back toward her.

Joyce took a deep breath. “Buffy is innocent in all of this. Don't make her pay for my mistakes. She’s still your daughter.”

Up until this moment, Hank’s face was coldly passive; at this remark, however, it changed, and Dumbledore could practically feel the agony roiling inside the man before he turned once again and left the room without another word, leaving Joyce with nothing but her own anguish.

As the scene disappeared, Dumbledore hastily moved further back into Joyce’s mind, following the thread of memories connected to this one as he began to understand the possible connection between this woman and the Blacks.

The next memory that appeared was inside the same house. Hank was there was well; he and Joyce were arguing.

“All these years, you knew I wasn’t her father, and you never told me?” Hank asked, his voice filled with quiet rage.

Joyce tried her best to hold back her tears, but was no use. They spilled down her cheeks in a torrent, until she was practically blinded by them. “Hank, it wasn’t like that,” she cried. “I— I didn’t know.”

Hank’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Well, now we do, don’t we? The hospital’s blood test has proved that,” he spat back. Then he froze, as if something had suddenly occurred to him. “Buffy can’t know about this. No one can.”

Joyce bit her lip, her tears ceasing as she thought of all the calls she had already made. “But it might help her—”

“How is the fact that she comes from a family of psychopaths because her mother couldn’t keep her legs together going to help her?” he said snidely.

Joyce flushed with both guilt and anger at his crude words. Then she realized what he was really saying. 

“You don’t want anyone to find out there might be something really wrong with her,” she accused.

Hank scowled. “Of course not,” he snapped. Then, perhaps realizing how that sounded, he took a deep, rasping breath and ran a hand over his face. “Look, I’ve been thinking it over. This is Buffy we’re talking about. Whatever is going on with her is just temporary. She—she just fell into a bad crowd this year with that Pike guy, but he’s out of her life now. Once the doctors give her the okay, she’ll leave the hospital and everything will be fine She’ll be fine.”

Dumbledore pulled himself out before Joyce could reply, needing to see no more of that particular moment. Instead he once again followed the thread of the memory to delve even deeper into her mind; for although Hank and Joyce had all but confirmed his suspicions, he still needed more proof. 

Soon, Dumbledore found what he was looking for when he spied a very familiar face among Joyce’s memories. 

Regulus Black.

“Could I walk you back to your place?”

Dumbledore felt Joyce’s excitement as she nodded. He watched the couple as they began to make their way back to Joyce’s hotel, alternating between kissing and laughing as they walked. And it made him smile. 

Though Regulus had been a Death Eater, Dumbledore would always remember him as the young boy who had tried his best to live up to his parents’ expectations, putting family pride and honor above all else, even his own wants and desires. To know that he had been able to be free of his burdens, even just for one night, was comforting to Dumbledore.

Not wanting to intrude any further on this particularly intimate memory, Dumbledore gently extricated himself. 

So Regulus appeared to have a daughter, one who was apparently in a hospital. Dumbledore wondered if it was because she had inadvertently performed some magic; though if he calculated her age correctly, it would be a bit unusual for her magical abilities to go undetected for so long. Either way, he needed to find her.

Delving one last time through Joyce’s mind, Dumbledore searched through random memories until he found the one he was looking for.

“Mom, please don’t leave me here,” a girl, Buffy he presumed, begged, a look of panic on her face. “You know I can’t— please, it’s all a misunderstanding. It was just a… a creative writing assignment for school. There will be no more crazy talk, I promise. Just don’t leave me here.”

Joyce bit her lip, so hard it almost bled as she willed herself not to grab her daughter’s hand and rush her out of the hospital right then and there.

“This isn’t a punishment, sweetie,” she said. “It’s to help you.”

Before Buffy could say anything else, Joyce gave her a brief but hard hug and walked out of the room. As she closed the door behind her, though, she heard Buffy call out.

“Mom! Mom! MOM!”

Joyce almost lost it right there. If Hank and a nurse hadn’t been waiting for her just outside the door, she didn’t know what she might have done.

She barely registered Hank’s reassuring hand on her shoulder. 

“It’s the right thing to do, Joyce,” he said firmly but not unkindly.

Joyce nodded; he was right, but it didn’t make her feel any better.

The nurse cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Summers, but we need your signature on these forms,” she said.

Though Joyce could barely see what she was signing through her tears, Dumbledore was able to make out the name of the hospital on the forms just fine. 

That was all he needed. Dumbledore pulled himself from Joyce’s mind once and for all.

“… it will be there on your right,” Joyce said. Perhaps noticing the thoughtful look on his face, she paused. “Do you want me to write this down?”

“Oh, no, madam. I do not wish to trouble you further,” he said. “Though admittedly my memory isn’t what it used to be, I do believe I can find my way. Thank you for your assistance.”

She smiled back and after a moment’s hesitation, retreated back into her home.

With the name of the hospital in his mind, Dumbledore strode down the pathway. It was time to pay Miss Summers a visit.

+++

Cloaked in a Disillusionment Charm, Dumbledore studied Buffy Summers through the small window on the door. If he had not had the information he acquired from Joyce, he would not have guessed she was a Black, for her looks favored her mother entirely.

At the moment, she was sitting on her bed, thumbing through the pages of a magazine, though it was obvious her mind was elsewhere.

Suddenly, without warning, her eyes snapped to attention as she seemed to look directly at him, a puzzled frown on her face.

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Still, he stayed where he was, looking to see if she truly was reacting to his presence or if it was mere coincidence.

He soon had his answer. As the seconds ticked by, she continued to gaze directly at him, her eyes never wavering, though she continually squinted and blinked, as if trying to clear her vision.

After a few long minutes, she finally turned back to her magazine, though she periodically sent suspicious looks in his direction.

Intriguing.

Though Dumbledore knew she could not see him – for his Disillusionment Charm was rather good – it seemed as though she could sense something was amiss.

Clearly, she was not to be underestimated. 

After making sure the hallway was empty, Dumbledore stepped away from the door and cast off the Disillusionment Charm. Then he uttered a silent _Alohamora_ at the lock and entered her room.

Though she did not look up as he approached, she was obviously well aware of his presence. By the defiant tilt to her chin, he knew that she would not deign to look at him until she chose.

Perhaps she had more Black in her than he initially thought.

Unperturbed, Dumbledore sat down in the only chair in the room. Because of her sensitivity to magic, he didn’t immediately delve into her mind, thinking he would first try to engage her in conversation.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Summers.”

At first, she said nothing; she just continued to peruse the magazine. Then she glanced up at him with a bored look on her face, before she looked down at the magazine again.

“Another doctor?” she said. “Just how many of you guys are in this place?”

Dumbledore smiled. “I’m not a doctor,” he revealed. “Consider me a consultant.”

She snorted. “Seriously? Just because _they_ can’t find anything wrong with me, they’ve decided to outsource?” she said. She turned toward the door. “You know, it would be a lot cheaper and a lot less painful – for _everyone_ –if you could just admit you made a mistake in locking me up here!”

Dumbledore smiled at her antics, and she looked taken aback by his amusement for a moment, before the carefully constructed look of boredom cloaked her features once again.

“So you believe this was a mistake?” he prodded. “Why?”

“Just look in the notes. I’ve only said it about a hundred times,” she shot back.

Dumbledore shook his head. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

She stared at the page of the magazine for a moment, obviously weighing what she wanted to do. Then she shrugged. “I’m big with the horror movies, so I wrote a story in my diary about vampires and demons attacking me. My mom read it, thought I was serious, and freaked out.”

“And that’s it? Nothing out of the ordinary has happened?” he probed.

She shook her head. “Nope, because, you know, vampires aren’t real. It was just in my overactive imagination,” she said blithely.

At that precise moment, she looked up at him, as if she were daring him to call her crazy or perhaps even a liar. As their eyes met, Dumbledore seized his opportunity and slunk into her mind. Within seconds, he had his answer.

She was a Vampire Slayer.

Dumbledore blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time one had been born into a Wizarding family. It was quite a rare occurrence, one in which the girl almost always lacked the ability to perform magic of any kind. No one knew why, though Dumbledore suspected it involved the Calling of the Slayer interfering with the natural magic that resided within the girl.

If he remembered correctly, as it was far before his time, the one girl who had been both Called as a slayer and able to perform magic had caused quite a problem. In fact, the Watcher’s Council and the Ministry had almost gone to war, as the Council refused to acknowledge the Ministry’s authority over the Slayer as a witch. In retaliation, the Ministry declared the Slayer a Magical Creature.

Thankfully, it appeared as though Ms. Summers avoided being put in that unenviable position between the Council and the Ministry, for he could see nothing in her memories that remotely resembled the use of magic.

Of course, it also meant he would not tell Sirius about the existence of his niece. She would only serve to distract the man, which could prove to be extremely dangerous, particularly now. Sirius had only just recently returned to London himself, and he was already chafing at his inability to do more for Harry and for the Order. What good would it do to tell him of his niece, whose destiny lay elsewhere, one that would almost certainly be short-lived? Conversely, there was no sense in dragging the poor girl into the Wizarding World when she had her own burden to bear, particularly when she could perform no magic.

Satisfied that his business here was concluded, he got to his feet.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Summers. I believe you are correct. You do not belong in here,” he said.

“So I can leave?” she asked, her hope temporarily overriding her feigned indifference.

Regretfully, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Summers. Unfortunately, I do not have control over that. But I suspect your stay here won’t be much longer.”

She deflated before his eyes, slumping back on her bed. “Whatever.”

Dumbledore quietly walked toward the door. He wished there were something he could do for the girl, but alas, his hands were tied. Just as he was about to leave, however, he looked back and paused, right before he cast the Trace on her.

It was unlikely that she would come into her magical abilities. If the impossible did manage to occur, however, he wanted to be the first to know, as they would have an entirely different situation in their hands.

With that in mind, Dumbledore paused once more outside her door and silently cast the Obliviate Charm, erasing all memories of him from her mind.

+++

A/N: Dumbledore -- he’s quite the interesting character, isn’t he? So many possible interpretations and very strong feelings! 


	4. What dreams may come

 

+++

_Sunnydale, 1996_

As rematches went, this wasn’t Buffy’s best. Sure, she had gotten a few good blows in, but so had the Master; she had the claw marks to prove it. To make things worse, the kick she had just levelled at his back hadn’t caught him off guard like she had hoped. In fact, the opposite happened; it gave him the perfect opportunity to attack, which of course, he took, grabbing her by the throat before she could even think to block it.  
  
Buffy’s first instinct was to take a step back and put some space in between them so she could break his hold. When she tried, however, her heel immediately hit something solid.  
  
The skylight, she realized. She must have been closer to it than she thought, so close that even the tiniest step back would send her crashing through the glass to the library below.  
  
That meant that she was trapped. She was trapped and his hand was starting to tighten around her throat.  
  
As his claws dug painfully into her neck, cutting off her air, Buffy couldn’t help but remember a similar situation, one she had been in less than fifteen minutes ago when she had been in his lair.  
  
There was one very important difference, though.  
  
She wasn’t helpless like she had been then, so frozen with fear that she couldn’t move a single muscle, even when he sank his fangs into her. This time she was just pissed.  
  
Seriously, the Master had already killed her once. There was no way in hell she was going to let him do it again. It didn’t matter that he currently had the upper hand, both literally and figuratively. This fight was far from over. She simply refused to accept otherwise.  
  
She had to move fast, though, as breathing was really starting to become an issue.  
  
Because of her position, her eyes immediately looked downward through the skylight, scanning the area below for something, anything, that she could use to end this once and for all.  
  
At first, to her immense disappointment, all she could see was creature at the center of the Hellmouth; obviously  _that_  wasn’t going to help her out at all. Then one of its many tentacles moved, and she saw it; a jagged piece of table lying next to the beast, angled up toward her in just the right way.  
  
Still, Buffy hesitated. It was extremely risky. If she missed, the Master would be down in library, right where her friends were, where he would be out of her reach. On the other hand, she didn’t really have much choice. She also only had a few more seconds left at best, the lack of oxygen still a problem.  
  
No, she had to do it, despite the risks. It was her only option. She just couldn’t allow herself to miss.  
  
Her mind made up, she snapped her attention back to the Master, who apparently decided it was time to gloat over his impending victory.  
  
“Where are your jibes now? Will you laugh when my Hell is on earth?” he sneered.  
  
Buffy felt her lips twitch in amusement. Did he have a surprise in store for him.  
  
With a surge of adrenaline, she grabbed the Master by the throat and hoisted him a few inches off the ground, relishing the way his eyes widened in shock and pain.  
  
“You’re so amped about Hell? Go there,” she replied. Then she flipped him over her shoulder and hurled him through the skylight. As the shards of broken glass began to pelt the beast below, intensifying its already ear-splitting screams, she grimaced. “And while you’re at it, take your friend with you.”  
  
She held her breath as he fell, willing him to land on the table. She continued to do so even when he hit the intended target dead on, the jagged piece of wood impaled him through the chest as his mouth opened in a silent scream. Only when his body began to disintegrate, leaving nothing behind but his bones, did she finally feel like she could breathe again.  
  
Instead of feeling a sense of satisfaction, however, Buffy felt anything but. Luckily for her, there were still vamps and a gigantic monster below to help her work out the tension.  
  
Buffy turned her focus to the thing coming out of the Hellmouth almost eagerly, more than happy to work out the rest of her issues on it. Before she could so much as count the number of heads on the monster, however, it let out another high-pitched shriek and disappeared back into the floor.  
  
That was all it took to make the remaining vampires in the room high tail it out of there. They practically climbed over each other in their dash for the nearest exit. As the double doors slammed open, Buffy could’ve sworn she saw the Anointed One standing on the other side in the hallway, his small, white face twisted in rage, before he ran away with the others.  
  
Then they were gone. It was over. The day had been saved. And she had never felt worse. Now that the thrill of the fight was gone, she was left with nothing but her anger, along with a million other emotions roiling around in her.  
  
“Buffy?”  
  
Startled, Buffy whirled around, her fist partially raised. It took her a moment to realize that she was at Spring Fling in the Bronze and not on the rooftop of the school, that they had left the library almost an hour ago and she had just been daydreaming.  
  
She hastily lowered her fist and plastered a fake smile on her face, willing Giles to lose that slightly alarmed expression he had on his face.  
  
“What’s up?”  
  
Giles studied her for another beat before clearing his throat. “I’m going back to the library to take of… certain matters there,” he explained.  
  
Buffy felt the tension coil low in her gut. She knew that someone had to clean up the mess they had left in the library – just like she knew Giles shouldn’t go back there alone. Yet, to her complete and utter frustration, she couldn’t bring herself to say that she would go with him.  
  
Maybe he saw something in her face, because he quickly shook his head.  
  
“I can do it on my own,” he said. “Stay here. Enjoy the rest of the night.”  
  
Buffy shook her head, though the movement felt sharp and jerky to her. “What if there are any vamps hanging around?”  
  
Instead of answering, Giles gave her a long, steady look, one that made her squirm uncomfortably.  
  
Just then, Angel stepped in.  
  
“I’ll go, too. I can do a few sweeps, make sure the rest of the night is a quiet one.”  
  
Buffy looked over at Angel, both grateful for his offer and upset by it.  
  
He had been acting weird ever since they had arrived at the Bronze; she had honestly thought he was going to drop kick Xander across the floor when they had first arrived and Xander had offered to go with her to get some drinks. He had kept his distance from her ever since, staying on the fringes of the group.  
  
The worst part was, although a case of misplaced jealousy over Xander wasn’t out of the question, she didn’t think that was the reason behind his strange behavior.  
  
It was because of her.  
  
Because even though she tried to talk and laugh and have a good time, she felt… different, removed from the whole situation, physically, emotionally, the whole enchilada. It was only getting worse as the night went on, too.  
  
While Willow and Xander hadn’t seemed to notice her strange behavior – or if they did, they didn’t show it, probably thinking getting her mind off things would be the best – she thought that maybe Angel had known something was up. This only confirmed it.  
  
“Okay,” she said slowly, tamping down the guilt she felt. “Thank you.”  
  
Angel held her gaze for a moment before nodding and turning away. Giles soon followed.  
  
The next hour or so passed by in a haze for Buffy. She only pretended to listen to what Willow was saying, nodding at what she thought was the appropriate times, and she flat out refused Xander when he tried to coax her onto the dance floor.  
  
Even though she knew it wasn’t fair, part of her resented them for not asking her how she was doing; even as she acknowledged that she didn’t want to talk about it at all.  
  
Deciding that she didn’t want to inflict her bad mood on them anymore, especially when she herself didn’t know what she wanted, Buffy finally bailed, citing some residual achiness from the fight with the Master. Though they didn’t try to talk her out of it, Willow hugged her especially hard before she left and she practically had to restrain Xander from coming with.  
  
That alone almost convinced her to stay. Yet, at the same time, she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She definitely felt a sense of relief when she finally stepped out of the Bronze and took a lungful of fresh air.  
  
It wasn’t until she actually began walking that she questioned the wisdom of her decision, for now that she was finally alone with no distractions, the weight of the day was really sinking in, making the walk home seem to stretch on forever. It didn’t help that she jumped at every sound, every shadow. So help her, she almost impaled an owl that swooped low over her unexpectedly.  
  
By the time she saw her house, all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head.  
  
Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be. Her mom must have been waiting up for her, because as soon as she reached the top of the stairs, the door to the master bedroom opened and her mom stepped out, looking safe and warm and comforting in her fluffy bathrobe.  
  
“How was it, sweetie?”  
  
Her question chilled Buffy to the bone, and it was all she could do not to vomit.  
  
“It was a night I’ll never forget,” she replied.  
  
Her mom smiled and walked over to her. “I know you didn’t want to go, but you did. I’m so proud of you, Buffy,” she said, kissing Buffy on the cheek. “I love you.”  
  
Tears pricked behind Buffy’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “I love you, too, mom.”  
  
She managed to choke out a good night before she fled to her room.  
  
Xander had pulled her out of the water. He had saved her life. So why did it still feel like she was drowning?

 

+++

She was dying. She was dying, and there was nothing she could to stop it. Even worse, she was dying with the knowledge that her death had singlehandedly brought on the apocalypse.

As she began to slip into unconsciousness, she wondered what she could have done differently. Maybe she could have taken the offensive long before this and made Angel take her down to the Master’s lair. Or maybe she could have saved the Anointed One instead of worrying about her date with Owen.

Then again, maybe neither would have worked. But… she should have tried, if only to save that boy. The thought of how he must have felt when he had been attacked hurt her as much as the Master’s bite did.

Her last thought before she died was the way his small, cold hand felt in hers as he led her to the Master’s lair...

With a strangled gasp, Buffy bolted upright in her bed, her breath coming in huge, heaving pants.

She needed air. Frantically, she scrambled out of bed and threw her window open with so much force, she could hear the frame creak and groan, though honestly, she could’ve cared less if she had brought the whole house down. It wasn’t until she managed to take a few deep breaths that she began to calm down.

That was when she spotted Angel standing on the sidewalk below, looking up at her with a strange expression. She felt heartbeat picked up again – and not in the good way.

She raced out her door and down the stairs as quietly as she could. By the time she wrenched the front door open, Angel was standing at the bottom of stairs.

“What’s going on? Is everything okay?” she asked in a near panic as she joined him. “Is Giles—”

Angel quickly nodded. “Everything is fine,” he assured her. “Giles is home, safe and sound. He asked me to patrol the area. I was just about to head home, but I…I wanted to make sure you’re okay first.”

Buffy felt all her breath whoosh out, and she practically collapsed on the bottom step, her head in her hands. After a few beats, she felt Angel sit down next to her.

She took one more deep breath before she looked over at him.

“Thank you for helping tonight, and for coming for me down there,” she said quietly.

If she hadn’t been so used to watching him, to interpreting his every look, trying to find meaning in the mystery, she would have missed it. But she knew him very well. She saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes, even though the rest of his face remained impassive.

“What’s going on, Angel?” she demanded.

But he stayed silent.

Buffy folded her arms across her chest, clearly indicating that she wasn’t going to let this go.

After a very long pause, he sighed.

“Xander didn’t tell you? I thought for sure he would’ve jumped at the chance…” His muttering trailed away as looked down at the ground.

Buffy was getting annoyed. “Tell me what, Angel?”

There was another lengthy pause before he looked up at her, the expression on his face almost pleading. “You have to understand. It was _prophesized_ , Buffy. I didn’t think— I thought—”

At first, Buffy didn’t understand what he was saying. Slowly, though, the pieces fell into place.

He hadn’t come for her. Xander had, and somehow he had managed to drag Angel along.

Abruptly, she got to her feet.

“Buffy,” Angel said, a little desperately.

But she just ignored him and started to walk back up the steps. She had only managed to make it past the first one when Angel reached out and grabbed her hand in an attempt to make her stay.

Buffy pulled her hand away with a strangled gasp. It was cold, just like the Anointed One’s had been when he had led her to the Master’s Lair to her death.

She knew she had overreacted, and sure enough, a hurt look immediately appeared on Angel’s face. Though she felt bad about that, a larger part of her was angry with him, with the entire situation, and she was done with it all.

Before Angel could say another word, she rushed back into her house and shut the door on him. And in her heart of hearts, she knew it was possibly forever.

 

+++

Angel didn’t leave right away. She could feel it. And she didn’t care. She simply shut her window and turned her back to it, staring at the wall until she finally drifted back to sleep.

It was a restless sleep, though, plagued continually with nightmares. The worst was when she dreamt that the Master was somehow resurrected and stronger than ever. It was almost a relief when she woke up a few hours later, even if it was because there was a strange tapping sound at her window.

Her first thought that it was Angel, and it made her mad. Besides the fact that it was annoyingly creepy, she just didn’t want to deal with him yet.

As she glanced over at the window, however, she noticed two things; the first was that the sun was about to rise any minute now, which meant that it wasn’t Angel. The second was that whatever it was, it had a very small silhouette, one that was definitely not human-shaped; a cat, she thought.

With a sigh, Buffy got out of bed. She half-expected the animal to bolt just at that, but to her disappointment, it didn’t budge. Her patience wearing more than a little thin, she stalked toward the window, intent on shooing the cat away by whatever means necessary.

The only problem was that, as she drew closer, she realized it wasn’t a cat. It was an owl, one that looked suspiciously like the one she had almost staked just a few hours ago. Not only that, but it was staring at her, almost as if it was ticked off that she was taking so long.

Buffy stopped in her tracks, suddenly unsure of what to do. A cat she could handle. But an owl? She wasn’t so sure, especially when said owl was acting as strangely as this one was.

As she tried to figure out what she should do, the owl turned to the side a little and held out its leg, glaring at her the entire time.

Buffy’s eyes widened in surprise.

There was a piece of paper tied to its leg, one that had her name written on it.

What the heck?

Curiosity overwhelming her caution, she closed the distance and opened the window. Clicking its beak in what she could only assume was approval, the owl hopped inside and waited.

Frowning, Buffy started to untie the piece of paper.

“Just so you know, this rates as one of the strangest things I’ve ever done,” she told the bird. “And that’s saying a lot.”

The owl clicked its beak again. This time there was no mistaking it; she could definitely detect a note of disdain in its response.

“So you do this every day then?” she shot back.

In response, the owl turned and flew away, though not before giving her one last look of owlish scorn.

Buffy stared after it for a moment. If she wasn’t mistaken, she had just had an argument with an owl. _And_ she had lost.

Though she suddenly had the urge to throw a stake and show the little feathered jerk just who exactly had the last laugh, she resisted, deciding to focus on the piece of paper in her hand instead.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise as she looked it over.

It was a note. From Giles. Asking her to come to his place as soon as possible.

Buffy rushed around her room as quickly as she could -- first scribbling a note to her mom, saying that she was going out to breakfast with Willow then shopping, then throwing on clothes and grabbing a credit card and some cash to make her story believable -- before she bolted out the door.

As she raced toward Giles’ apartment, she tried to figure out what was up. Was this a trap? If it was, Giles was in danger, because that note was written in his handwriting on his personal stationery. If it wasn’t, well, then he had a lot of explaining to do, starting with his secret life as an owl whisperer.

 

+++

A/N: This was the last jump through time, I swear. The story will settle into this time period from here on in. Also, the first two lines of dialogue are from Prophecy Girl (as if you didn’t know!).


	5. Playing the Odds

+++

As Buffy raced toward Giles’ apartment, she tried not to overreact. Unfortunately, it was a losing battle.

After all, this was _Giles_. There were only so many reasons why he would have sent her an emergency message through an _owl_ less than twelve hours after they had closed the Hellmouth, and they all ended with the word ‘apocalypse’.

So when she finally burst through his front door -- just barely refraining from smashing it off its hinges in the process -- she expected the worst; Giles in a state of panic, Giles held hostage with a contingent of baddies ready to jump her, Giles missing altogether, with nothing to go on but a blood stain on the carpet.

What she found was Giles sitting at his dining room table, having a cup of tea with some old guy she didn’t recognize.

Buffy skidded to a halt as she took in the very domestic, very non-end of the world scene before her.

Clearly, she and Giles had different ideas about what constituted an emergency.

Her only consolation was that her sudden appearance made him bobble his cup in surprise, sending little splashes of tea everywhere. Even that little bit of instant karma was short-lived, however, for as her initial shock wore off, she began to notice a few things.

The most obvious was Giles himself. Not only was he still wearing the same clothes from the night before, but he also looked really, really tired; weary even, in a way that went beyond simple physical exhaustion. What really caught her attention, though, was the way he was looking at her, his expression a mixture of wonder and dread and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He never even noticed the spilled tea.

Then there was Giles’ guest, who, by contrast, was the picture of composure as he sipped his tea, looking every bit like the wise kindly grandfather everyone wished they had, from the snowy white beard and twinkling blue eyes, right down to the distinguished robes he was sporting. Even as Buffy’s stare passed the boundaries of polite, he remained unruffled, simply meeting her gaze with a mild look of his own.

Buffy was immediately suspicious. It was the crack of dawn on a Saturday in May. His clothes were completely out of place. They did provide a pretty nifty way to hide something, though.

His reaction to her was off, too. Giles had practically jumped out of his seat at her dramatic entrance, but this guy hadn’t batted an eyelash. Now he was trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible -- which in her experience meant that he _was_ a threat; or at least, he had the ability to be one.

Yep, though the situation didn’t scream ‘danger’, it was far from okay. And it all centered around Mr. Calm, Cool and Unnervingly Collected.

Almost as if he could read her mind, the stranger’s smile grew even blander, the twinkle in his eye brighter, as he put his cup down and slowly got to his feet.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Giles’ charge, Miss Summers,” he said. He inclined his head toward her in polite greeting. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Buffy scowled, quickly positioning herself next to Giles so that she could intercept any potential attacks from across the table. 

“Giles, what’s going on?” she demanded. “Who is this?”

Giles was on his feet in a flash.

“Buffy, it’s okay,” he quickly reassured her. “This is Professor Albus Dumbledore, and he’s here because, well, because… I don’t know quite how to tell you this, but…that is to say...”  
“You’re a witch, Miss Summers.”

Buffy bristled, her back immediately up at the guy’s nerve. “Name calling is really not the way to start a conversation, Dumb A—”

“Buffy,” Giles sharply interrupted.

She closed her mouth with an audible snap. Yes, she was wound a wee bit too tightly, and, no, her snarkiness was not going to help the situation. It didn’t make his rebuke hurt any less.

It must have been written all over her face because Giles’ expression instantly softened.  
“Would you like some tea? No? Then why don’t we all take a seat?” he suggested, sitting down even as he spoke in an obvious effort to diffuse the situation as quickly as possible.

Without any hesitation, Dumble _dore_ followed suit, his robes slightly billowing with the movement.

After a long beat, Buffy did as well.

As soon as she was seated, Giles cleared his throat.

“Buffy, Professor Dumbledore here is a wizard, Headmaster at one of the most preeminent Wizarding schools in Europe, among other things. His reputation precedes him,” he said, with a distinct note of respect in his voice. “He means that you’re an actual witch.”

Buffy couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing, and it eased away some of the tension she had been feeling.

“Clearly, this is the beginning of a very funny joke,” she said. When no one else cracked a smile, her smile faded a little. “Okay… well, then, there’s obviously been some mix up, right?”

She looked expectantly at Giles, waiting for him to chime in and say that this was all a terrible mistake, followed by a very long-winded, very British explanation of exactly why the guy was wrong.

But it never happened. If anything, Giles looked... torn.

The last little bit of her smile evaporated.

“Giles!” she exclaimed. “Please tell me you don’t believe him. Because I’m kind of thinking I would have noticed by now.”

Though she was speaking to Giles, it was Dumbledore who replied, much to her irritation.

“You most certainly would have, Miss Summers, if it were an ability you possessed before last night,” he said mildly.

Then he paused, letting that sentence hang in the air, maybe to give her time to catch his meaning.

It was unnecessary. Unfortunately, Buffy knew all too well what he was getting at.

As nonchalantly as she could, she shrugged. “Because I died,” she replied, her voice only stumbling slightly over the last word. Then in a thinly disguised attempt to draw the conversation away from the topic at hand, she added, “You’re not saying that’s how witches get their magical powers, are you? Because that’s really twisted, if it is.”

If Dumbledore saw through her ruse, he didn’t let on. He just shook his head.

“Most witches and wizards discover their powers at a young age. You, however, are in a unique situation,” he said. “A slayer who is also a witch is quite rare. When it _does_ happen, the girl is almost always unable to perform magic, as you could not. The prevailing theory is that the essence of the Slayer inhibits any magical abilities she possesses, which you yourself experienced. Your death, however, changed that.”

Gotcha, Buffy thought to herself as she leaned forward on her elbows and smirked. 

“Yeah, I’m really not seeing how. According to your own theory, slaying and witchyness can’t coexist. And wouldn’t you know? I’m still the Slayer.”

Dumbledore sat back in his chair without a word, seemingly having no response to that.

Before she could gloat, however, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye; Giles, shifting in his seat, looking very uneasy all of a sudden. Then, in a gesture that never boded well, he took off his glasses, cleaning them methodically, before he put them back on and turned toward her, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Buffy, when I returned home last evening, there was a message from The Council, informing me that I should return to England at once as my duties as Watcher have concluded,” he began. When Buffy started to protest, he held up his hand. “ _Because_ my charge had died and a new Slayer has been Called.”

“But I’m still the Slayer,” Buffy protested. “I killed the Master, remember? With Slayer strength and everything.”

Again, though she directed the conversation to Giles, Dumbledore cut in.

She was really starting to resent the guy.

“Ah, but did you?” he asked. “At least entirely? Was there anything that seemed to happen on its own, as if you willed it so?”

Buffy started to shake her head, annoyed that her conversation with Giles had been interrupted. Dumbledore’s question struck a chord, though, reminding her of a few weird things that had happened the night before, like the piece of wood that had jutted up at just the right angle at the exact moment she needed it; hell, even the way the entire _Hellmouth_ had closed like a demonic jack in the box.

Judging by the way Dumbledore was watching at her, studying her, he _knew_. In fact, it almost seemed like he knew exactly what she was thinking. 

It also felt strangely familiar. 

With a frown of concentration, she stared back, trying to figure out why the sudden deja vu. Interestingly, she thought she saw Dumbledore’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly at this, which of course only made her more determined. 

“Buffy?”

Buffy gave a small jolt, the sound of Giles’ voice effectively breaking her line of thought and bringing her back to the question she had left hanging. 

In a move that was both defensive and defiant, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Dumbledore.

“It doesn’t prove anything. We’re on a _Hellmouth_. There could be a million reasons why things happened the way they did last night, none of them involving magic from me.”

To her surprise, Dumbledore nodded in agreement. “Perhaps not,” he conceded. “But then, your use of magic is how I located you.”

_That_ managed to shock Buffy into silence, something that Dumbledore did not hesitate taking advantage of.

“If you would indulge me for a moment, I think we could settle the matter once and for all,” he said. As he spoke, he reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled something out, which he then extended to her. “Please, if you would.”

Buffy blinked, staring at the object in his hand. It was a stick; a stake, she thought at first. Except it was too slender and smooth, as if someone had polished and stained it a dark mahogany color...

“Is that a— a— _wand_?” she asked, feeling ridiculous just saying it aloud. At Dumbledore’s nod, she whipped around in her seat toward Giles. “They have wands? Did we know this?”

Giles gave her a slightly exasperated look, which she appreciated, strangely enough; the familiarity of the gesture was almost soothing, a balm to her rapidly fraying nerves.

“Yes, we did, though perhaps our discussion got lost in the aftermath of the situation with Catherine Madison?” he said, somewhat pointedly. Then he sighed and looked at her beseechingly. “Please, Buffy. Take the wand. It won’t harm you, I promise.”

Buffy bit her lip. Part of her wanted to refuse to pick it up, but she knew it would just be out of sheer petulance.

No, she decided. It would be better to get it over with so they could get Dumbledore out of their hair and get back to the whole ‘not the Slayer’ bit.

With that, she took a deep breath and took the wand in her hand.

She was immediately struck by how flimsy it felt, like a twig that could be snapped oh so easily. It also felt like nothing more than a piece of wood. She was picking up absolutely nothing by way of magical vibes.

Triumphantly, she started to hand the wand back to Dumbledore, but he shook his head.  
“Now give it a little wave,” he said encouragingly.

Buffy barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Still, she did as she was asked, giving the wand an impatient swipe through the air before handing it back.

That was the plan anyway. The only problem was, about halfway through her arc, a warm tingling sensation shot down her arm to her fingertips, seemingly into the wand itself, which let out a small spurt of golden sparks.

They stopped almost as quickly as they had started, but the damage was done. Buffy knew it -- even if she couldn’t admit it quite yet.

“That could’ve been you,” she said feebly, practically throwing the wand back at Dumbledore. “A trick.”

“It could,” he said gravely. “But is that what you believe?”

Buffy didn’t answer; while she refused to admit that he was right, she couldn’t lie, either. She had felt something _inside_ her react to that wand, tugging at her very being. Instead, she leaned on the table, her head in her hands as she tried to wrap her mind around everything.

A whole minute passed before she could bring herself to speak, and even then, she couldn’t bring herself to look up at them.

“I just don’t understand. None of it makes any sense. You say I’m not the Slayer, but it sure feels like it. What does the Council have to say about that?”

“How do you think they learned of your death?” Giles replied. Then he sighed. “I’m sorry, Buffy, but another girl has been Called. They-- they’ve moved on.”

Buffy looked up with a sharp intake of breath at his blunt words, surprised by how much they hurt, particularly since she knew she should have been happy; ecstatic even. It was just that she had _finally_ come to terms with being the Slayer the night before. She had _died_ for it. To have it taken away now seemed wrong. Worse than that; cruel.

It left her powerless over her own destiny once again. It also made no sense whatsoever.

Almost overwhelmed by the rush of emotion she felt, she opened her mouth. To rage, to shout, she didn’t know. She never got the chance to find out, as the look in Giles’ eye stopped her cold.

It was the same look he gave her whenever Snyder or a student walked in on them mid-slayer chat. There was more to the story than met the eye, something he didn’t want to say in front of present company.

Swallowing her hurt, she forced herself to focus on why Dumbledore was there.

“I still don’t quite understand how I can be a witch. Even if I’m not _the_ Slayer, I’m still _a_ Slayer.”

A silent exchange occurred between the two men, one that set Buffy’s teeth on edge, before Giles spoke.

“The truth of the matter is that we simply don’t know. This is rather unprecedented. The only thing that seems clear is that the Slayer line has moved on to another, unlocking your magical potential in the process,” he said. Then he smiled, pride shining in his eyes. “As always, you are proving to be the exception to the rule.”

Buffy wanted to return the smile, but there was still too much to process. She was a little surprised by how calm and accepting Giles was about it all, considering he really hadn’t had much more time than she had to absorb everything. Yet he and Dumbledore already had it all figured out, silent communications at all.

Suddenly, a suspicion bloomed in her mind. She knew she should’ve kept it to herself; she knew how badly Giles felt when she had found out that he had kept the prophecy from her. Before she could stop herself, however, she turned toward him.

“Did you know? About me, I mean, before all this?”

To her immense relief, Giles looked genuinely shocked. “What? Good Lord, Buffy, of course I didn’t. How could you—” He stopped short when he saw the look on her face, a mixture of hurt and guilt flashing across his own. After taking a deep breath, he looked her straight in the eye. “I only found out myself when Professor Dumbledore contacted me earlier in the evening.”

Buffy tersely nodded. Apologies would have to come later. She turned her attention toward Dumbledore. “And you knew because I supposedly did some kind of magic? Is that how it works?”

“For children not born into Wizarding families, yes.”

Buffy scrunched her brow in confusion. “Are you saying magic is hereditary? Or not, since kids don’t have to have magical parents?”

Dumbledore regarded her for a moment, a look of approval in his eye. “That is an interesting question, one we have been struggling over for centuries. Some believe that those witches and wizards without any obvious magical ancestry are a chance occurrence. Other are of an opinion even less flattering,” he said. “My own personal theory, which I must admit is not fondly embraced, is that someone from a seemingly non-magical family can in fact trace their lineage to at least one magical ancestor, perhaps one who was unable to perform magic and thus decided to live in the Muggle – non-magical – world.”

“And so you think that’s what happened to me?” Buffy asked, even as she began running through her family tree, trying to figure out who the relative could have been.

She had only gotten to Great Grandma Millie – who from what she heard, was a ‘free spirit’ for her time – when she noticed that Dumbledore was giving her a strange look. In fact, he looked slightly uncomfortable, and it actually was a little unnerving.

“Not quite,” he said quietly. Then he shook his head. “You shouldn’t be learning about such a delicate issue in this manner. Unfortunately, circumstances being what they are, I have no choice… your father was a wizard.”

Buffy snorted. “ _My_ dad? I don’t think so.”

Dumbledore gave her a sad smile. “But he was. In fact, Regulus Black was one of my students.”

Giles let out a small gasp, and at first, Buffy didn’t know why. When it sunk in a moment later, she felt herself the heat rise to her face.

“No, there’s been a mistake.”

“There hasn’t been. It was how I found you, and it is why I am here instead of a representative from the American Ministry,” he said, directing this last bit at Giles. “It had come to my attention that Regulus might have fathered a child. Your use of magic last night simply allowed me to locate you. Though I must admit, I myself wasn’t absolutely certain until you held this.”

He held up the wand.

“Of course,” Giles breathed.

Buffy frowned, completely confused. “Huh? What am I missing here?”

“Choosing a wand is not as simple as picking one that strikes your fancy. As Mr. Ollivander is fond of saying, the wand chooses the wizard. And once that connection is made, very little can sever it. The wand will not work as well for any other. It will, however, recognize familial relations. That is, wands can be handed down in a family while retaining full functionality,” Dumbledore explained. He gestured toward the wand again. “This belongs to someone closely related to Regulus. As you saw, it reacted to you because it recognized who you are, or more precisely, who your father was.”

Buffy knew next to nothing about wizards and witches, let alone their wands, so she obviously had no way of knowing if he was telling the truth. Giles’ reaction, however, spoke volumes. Still, she wasn’t going to believe anything until she got some answers, straight from the source.

“I need to talk to my mom,” she said, abruptly jumping to her feet.

Dumbledore nodded and rose to his feet. “Of course. As I said, it was not my place to tell you of such news, and for that I apologize. There are several matters I must attend to as well, such as returning this wand to its proper owner, along with the explanation I had promised when I first asked to borrow it. However, there are still some matters I would like to discuss with you. Perhaps I could come back later?”

Buffy really didn’t want to hear anything else he had to say. He’d say enough to last a lifetime.

“What else is there to talk about?” she asked, not caring how rude she sounded.

Dumbledore wasn’t fazed.

“It’s important that you learn how to control your abilities, Miss Summers. Otherwise, you could put yourself and others in danger. There is an academy in Salem, Massachusetts for young witches and wizards here in America, but because of your situation, I would like to suggest that you come to England, at least for a brief spell,” he said.

Both Buffy and Giles immediately reacted to this.

“Now, wait just a minute!”

“Why? To meet some guy who got my mom pregnant? Because he cared so much he couldn’t tell me the news himself?”

Dumbledore held up his hand. “I’m afraid the situation is rather complicated, but I really do believe it’s best if you came to England,” he said. Then a shadow crossed his face. “As for your father… I don’t believe he ever knew about you, for he died in 1979.”

Buffy dropped back into her chair with a dull thud. Logically, she knew she shouldn’t care. So what if she had gained and lost a father in a measly two minutes? She didn't even know the guy, and he either didn’t know or care about her. And yet she felt as if she had been dealt a physical blow, the latest to her already battered emotional state.

“I’m sorry,” Dumbledore apologized. “There will be time enough to discuss this tonight. Thank you, Mr. Giles, for your time and hospitality. I’m particularly appreciative for your discretion in this matter. I know wizards and watchers have not always seen eye to eye.”  
Giles nodded. “It’s Buffy’s well-being that’s most important here.”

A moment of understanding seemed to pass between the two men. Then Dumbledore walked to the center of the living room and pulled out a wand, one different from the one he had Buffy hold earlier.

“Until this evening, then,” he said, dipping his head in farewell.

And with that, he disappeared without so much as a _*poof*_.

Buffy’s eyes widened as she stared at the spot he had just been in. With that obvious display for magic, the reality of the situation hit home. Without even fully realizing what she was doing, she pulled her feet up onto the seat of the chair curled up into a ball, her forehead resting on her knees.

A moment later, she felt Giles put a hand on her shoulder.

She couldn’t help it; she instantly recoiled, not wanting to be touched.

If Giles was hurt, he didn’t let on. He simply pulled his own chair over next to her and sat down.

“Buffy, I promise, no matter what happens, we will get through this,” he said. “If that means going to Salem, or to London, or staying right here and telling the Council and the Ministry to go to hang, then so be it. But we will get through this. Together.”

Buffy looked up at him, both surprised and touched by his declaration. “You would do that?” she asked, hating the way her voice broke.

“Of course I would, dear girl,” he replied.

It was too much. Fighting the Master, dying, her father. She had been on a roller coaster of emotions for over 24 hours now, and it was just too much. She finally broke down, and her body was quickly wracked with heaving sobs. 

Giles put his arm around her again; this time she didn’t push him away. She just leaned on his shoulder and cried.

+++


	6. Tangled Webs

+++

Sirius sat by the fire, absently swirling the remnants of his fire whiskey in his glass, his thoughts solely on Harry.

When Dumbledore had first informed him that his godson would be taking Occlumency lessons from Snape of all people, he had not been pleased. Now, however, after speaking with Harry in the fireplace not a week ago, he was positively livid.

How dare that sniveling git tarnish James’ memory to _Harry_ , no less? It made his blood boil.

Then, as if that weren’t enough, Harry and the others were stuck with that Umbridge hag, who by all accounts, sounded like a real piece of work, one that could possibly rival his own dear mother. Though Dumbledore insisted that no harm would come to the students, that there were others who would ensure their safety, Sirius was not convinced. He could still remember the cruelty Mommy Dearest inflicted on _him_ , her own son. 

She, at least, had a modicum of interest in his preservation, the first few years, anyway. Umbridge was under no such pressure.

With these thoughts swirling in head, torturing him, Sirius swallowed the rest of his fire whiskey in one consuming gulp; the familiar burn, however, brought him no comfort. Harry needed him, and there wasn’t a single thing he could. He was... helpless. Worse than helpless. He was stuck within the walls of 12 Grimmauld Place while everyone else was out on Order business.

How he hated this house and everything it represented.

Seized by a fit of anger, Sirius hurled his glass at the wall, feeling a small sense of satisfaction as he heard the glass shatter, watched the tiny bits of glass fall onto the carpet like stars in the night sky. 

It wasn’t nearly enough, though. He itched to do something, anything. 

For one impetuous moment, he entertained the idea of Apparating himself to the gates of Hogwarts and just so he could see his godson and make sure he was okay, consequences be damned. He even made to reach for his wand – only to realize that it wasn’t in its usual spot. In fact, it wasn’t on his person at all.

Sirius groaned. Of course, Dumbledore had asked to borrow it—

Sirius sat up straight as an impossible thought occurred to him. Had the old fox known he would try something like this? It was difficult to believe, as it was a completely impulsive move on his part, but then why the devil would the old man need it otherwise?

Suddenly feeling the urge to pace, to help him collect his thoughts as he puzzled this latest mystery out, Sirius leapt to his feet. He was quickly halted by the crunch of glass underfoot, though.

Grimacing, Sirius looked down at the mess he had made. Out of habit, he instinctively reached for his wand once again. When he found it wasn’t there, he let out a loud curse and turned toward the door.

"Kreacher!"

He plunked himself back down into his chair and waited, but nothing happened. Wondering where the foul house elf had gotten himself to, he tried again, this time with considerably less patience.

“KREACHER!”

Another minute passed before the house elf finally appeared before him with a loud _*pop*_.

The baleful manner in which Kreacher glared at him only served to irritate Sirius further.

“Clean up this mess and bring me another fire whiskey,” he ordered somewhat harshly. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Not necessarily in that order.”

Kreacher bowed toward him, even though Sirius could see it pained him to do so. “Yes, Master.”

“Could you please make that two fire whiskeys, Kreacher?”

Dumbledore. 

Sirius leapt to his feet, the unexpected break in monotony Dumbledore’s visit brought far outweighing his current mood.

“Albus! Back so soon?” he asked. “I thought I wasn’t to expect you until tomorrow.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Yes, affairs concluded a little sooner than expected,” he said, walking over to the other chair in the study. As he began to take a seat, Kreacher appeared with two fire whiskeys, and he took one. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

The house elf said nothing. He simply stared back rather rudely for a moment before turning to give Sirius his drink.

Sirius’ tempered instantly flared. Before he could say or do anything to the little beast, however, Dumbledore pointedly cleared his throat.

“I believe this is yours,” he said, extending Sirius’ wand out to him.

Though he kept his tone mild, Sirius could see the mild rebuke in his eyes.

Because he didn’t want to get another lecture on how one can catch more thestrals with fresh meat than with spoiled -- and more importantly, because the appearance of his wand reminded him of the mystery surrounding it -- Sirius swiped his glass of fire whiskey from Kreacher and sat back down.

The damned elf immediately began attending to the broken glass on the floor; rather loudly, too. Not wanting to distract from the explanation he was owed, however, Sirius simply ignored this and took his wand from Dumbledore. 

Though he immediately felt a sense of relief wash over him as his hand closed around it, he said nothing and just waited. 

Knowing why Sirius was uncharacteristically silent, Dumbledore obliged, deciding to get right to the heart of the matter as soon as Kreacher had finished.

“Sirius, you have a niece,” he said bluntly.

Sirius felt his jaw drop. If it was anyone but Dumbledore telling him this, he would have immediately thought it a joke. Even so--

“Surely, you must be joking, Albus. You do remember that Regulus has been dead for quite some time now, right?”

Dumbledore gave him a rueful smile. “I have just returned from seeing her, and as your wand has verified, she is indeed your brother’s daughter.”

Though Sirius still had no idea how it was possible, he knew Dumbledore would not say something like this lightly. And apparently, his own wand had verified it, making it nearly impossible to refute. Despite this, however, it was still a bit hard to swallow. For a brief moment, Sirius even thought to check the family tapestry, was halfway to his feet even, before he thought better of it. 

The blasted thing had been charmed to only show legitimate, full-blooded witches and wizards. They couldn’t sully the family tree with indiscretions, could they? If they had been allowed to live, that was. Sirius had heard whispers in his childhood, after all, ones that had made his blood run cold. 

And yet somehow, it seemed as though Regulus had had a child, one that had remained safe from his psychotic family. 

Dazed, Sirius took a huge gulp of his fire whiskey.

“But…how? When? And may I repeat, HOW?”

“Apparently, Regulus had a brief liaison shortly before his death,” Dumbledore explained. 

Sirius frowned. “And we’re only finding this out now? A bit dodgy, don’t you think? Could this be some sort of trick?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I think not. The mother is a Muggle from America, without the slightest notion that magic exists. And up until a few hours ago, the girl herself did not know of her heritage, for she had no magical ability of her own.”

Sirius gave a jolt at this news. “She’s a Squib? I suppose it’s possible, particularly if her mother is a Muggle,” he said thoughtfully. He could feel himself warning to the idea of having a niece; at least, one who had no previous connection to demented family. Still, he hesitated. “What’s her name?”

“Buffy.”

Sirius burst out laughing despite himself and the gravity of the situation, the last of his reservations melting away. 

“Regulus has a secret, illegitimate daughter, who also happens to be a half-blood Squib, and her name is Buffy? I like her already,” he declared, raising his glass in cheers.

Amusement danced in Dumbledore’s eyes, well aware of why this news would be delightful to Sirius. It quickly faded, however, as he prepared to deliver the rest of his news.

“Be that as it may, she is a Squib no longer. She recently came into her powers.”

This made Sirius pause. “How’s that? It’s rather late for that, isn’t it? She must be, what, seventeen years old?”

“Sixteen,” Dumbledore corrected. “Yes, it is unusual… but Buffy was a Vampire Slayer, which tends to inhibit wand magic.”

Sirius paled. “A Vampire Slayer? And wait, what do you mean, she ‘was’ a Vampire Slayer? If I remember correctly, it is a lifelong post, an abbreviated one at that,” he said with a grimace, taking a much-needed sip from his glass. 

“Indeed it is. A girl is Chosen until her demise. And Buffy did indeed die,” Dumbledore confirmed, politely ignoring the way Sirius spit his fire whiskey out at this. “When she was resuscitated shortly thereafter, the Slayer line had passed on to another girl and her magical powers were unlocked.”

“Merlin!” Sirius sputtered, clutching at his chest. “I’m going to need a mediwitch before this conversation is over with. When can I see her?”

“I will be leaving to see her again later this evening,” Dumbledore replied. Then, perhaps sensing that Sirius fully planned on accompanying him on this visit, he quickly added, “I’m hoping to convince her to return with me to London soon after that, at which point you two can meet.”

Frustrated beyond belief, Sirius collapsed in his chair. “You can’t be serious, Albus! I’m just to sit here and wait? And what if she decides not to come? What then?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I know this is trying, but we cannot afford to lose sight of the larger picture here, despite our personal feelings,” he said. When all he received was a surly look in return, he tried a different tack. “We must also think of Buffy and what’s best for her, Sirius. She has understandably been taken quite by surprise by all this. It is of the utmost importance that we do not frighten her, particularly since she is in an extremely vulnerable position now as a result of her recent brush with death, perhaps more so than she even realizes…”

Sirius looked up sharply at this last part, sensing the man had more to say on the subject but was refraining from doing so. And indeed, Dumbledore blithely continued on.

“And let us not forget that there is much she still needs to understand, including who you are and the circumstances surrounding your situation here.”

Knowing he would not win this argument, Sirius stared at the fire moodily. He heard Dumbledore stand, and as he passed by, he put a sympathetic hand on Sirius’ shoulder, which Sirius immediately shrugged off. To his surprise, this made Dumbledore chuckle.

Sirius looked up sharply at the other man.

“She’s quite like you,” Dumbledore offered, his eyes twinkling brightly.

Then he continued to make his way to the door.

Sirius watched him go. Before he disappeared, however, something occurred to Sirius.

“Albus!” he called out. “How did you know? How did you know to find her?”

Dumbledore paused for a moment before turning back around.

“The Ministry intercepted a call to the London authorities, inquiring about you and your brother. We managed to trace this call to Buffy’s mother. Upon visiting her, I learned of Buffy’s existence and put the pieces together from there,” he explained. Then he inclined his head. “Good night, Sirius. I promise to keep you abreast of all developments.”

Then he was gone, and Sirius was left alone once again.

+++

Chaos reigned down in the Master’s Lair. The Anointed One watched as a few vampires ran around, frantically collecting their belongings, erasing all traces of their existence there, as they waited for any other survivors to return.

At first it was amusing; they reminded him of the ants he used to play with when he was human, racing back and forth in panic whenever he would put a rock in their path or pour water down into their ant colony. It became less amusing when only two more vampires trickled in, showing just how few of them were left. Real annoyance set in much later, when the others were finally done and realized that they didn’t have a clue what to do next.

That was when the arguing began.

Still, the Anointed One said nothing. He just watched, waiting to see what they said.

They continued on with their squabbling for what seemed like forever until Joshua, the oldest of the group, stood up on one of the rocks like the Master used to and bellowed for silence.

“There’s an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. The Master had me scout it out weeks ago—”

“You mean stay in town? Are you crazy? The Slayer will hunt us all down!” another vampire – Anna – exclaimed.

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd. Emboldened by this, she pushed her way to the front of the others to rally them.

“The Slayer knows where we are now. We are not safe here. We should have left town already, before the sun rose.”

Joshua snarled. “We should strike now while we have the element of surprise, when the Slayer and her friends are still celebrating, thinking us defeated.” 

“But we _are_ defeated!” Anna shot back. 

A few others growled in agreement, rallying closer to her, and Joshua’s eyes flashed yellow. Before he or anyone else could act, however, the Anointed One finally stood.

“Silence.” 

He hadn’t shouted, or even spoken much above a whisper. He didn’t have to. All eyes immediately went to him -- right before they lowered in deference as everyone remembered their place. 

The Anointed One skimmed over all of them until he found Anna, who shrank from his frown. Her allies immediately stepped away from her, their quiet support gone. Before he could think of an appropriate punishment, however, an unfamiliar voice filled the room.

“So we run from one little Slayer? My, how things have changed in my absence.”

All the vampires turned to see someone tall and dark standing in the entrance. The Anointed One did not recognize him, though most of the others seemed to. And they did not look happy to see him.

“Absalom,” Joshua greeted, somewhat stiffly. “You have returned.”

Absalom nodded as he walked into the lair. “Just in time, too, it appears,” he said scornfully. “Where is our Master? Has he been freed?”

Everyone fell completely silent, nervously shuffling their feet and staring at the floor. 

Disgusted with their behavior, the Anointed One stepped forward and met Absalom’s eyes unwaveringly.

“He is gone, killed by the Slayer when he tried to open the Hellmouth,” he said.

Absalom’s eyes blazed with anger. “The Master was defeated, and yet all of you here live to tell the tale? Isn’t that curious?”

Joshua jumped down from his perch until he was toe to toe with Absalom, growling back his displeasure at the insinuation. “At least we were here,” he shot back.“You’ve been gone for over a year now, when the Master needed you most.”

Absalom’s hand shot out and grabbed Joshua by the throat. “I was exactly where I was supposed to be on _his_ orders, and I returned as soon as he sent word to me, but I was overseas,” he hissed. “That still does not explain why the Master is dead. Nor does it explain who this child is.”

“He is the Anointed One,” Joshua managed to choke out, a sense of satisfaction gleaming in his eyes at Absalom’s reaction to this news. Seeing his opportunity, he broke the other vampire’s hold. “As for the Slayer, she is stronger than we thought. And she is not alone. We could barely see the Master, let alone get to his side before he turned to bone—”

Absalom gave a start at this. “His bones still remain?” he asked, the eagerness clear in his voice.

“Yes,”the Anointed One spoke up. “Why?”

Absalom’s face split into a wide grin. “It means that all may not be lost and we may yet have him back. We will need to retrieve his bones, however.”

The group fell silent as they all realized who had the Master’s bones, and that she wouldn’t give them up easily.

“I have an idea,” the Anointed One finally said. “We know who the Slayer is. We can find her and make her give them to us. And if she doesn’t, we’ll hurt her, just like she hurt us.”

+++

A/N: Still with me? 


	7. Gambit

+++

“Yes… yes… of course…”

Giles held the receiver up to his ear as the Council member on the other end of the line prattled on, making sure that he gave a perfunctory answer whenever it was required; however, his focus was firmly on Buffy. 

Not surprisingly, she had been asleep ever since her emotional outpouring, as though that release finally allowed her to take the rest she so desperately needed. It was why he had let her be up until this point, simply covering her up with a blanket on his couch, despite the fact that it was getting rather late in the day, the sun already beginning to set. 

Now, however, it appeared as though she were caught in the throes of a nightmare, her face twisted in pain as she thrashed back and forth.

Deciding then and there that the conversation had gone on quite long enough, Giles turned his full attention to the insufferable man on the other end of the line.

“Yes… Yes… Yes, everything is in order for when Mr. Zabuto arrives,” he confirmed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to… Yes… Yes, I’ll be sure to pass on your best wishes to Ms. Summers. Good bye.”

Giles glared at the phone as he hung up. Any doubts he had about his decision regarding Buffy and the Council had evaporated in that call, and he needed to take a moment to calm himself before he turned his attention to Buffy.

To his surprise, she was sitting up, staring at him.

“So this is really it, huh? Out with the old, in with the new?” she asked, the bitterness in her voice unmistakable. "You'd think they'd jump at the chance of having two slayers for the price of one."

Giles got to his feet and made his way over to her. He didn’t immediately speak; he simply looked at her for a long moment, taking in the weariness and hurt he saw there. Buffy held his gaze for a moment before she looked away, almost as though she was embarrassed. 

He wanted nothing more than to let it go, to leave her in peace. It was a luxury neither of them could afford, however, so instead he cleared his throat loudly and rather pointedly.

A long moment passed. Then her eyes slowly met his.

Giles gave her a small smile. “That is precisely why I haven't told them the truth.”

Buffy’s jaw dropped. “What? What do you mean?” she exclaimed.

“I’ve come to realization that the Council would take drastic measures to keep you in their employ, so to speak, if they knew that you still have your powers. I believe they might even try to duplicate your experience with others in the hopes of creating more Slayers,” he explained, remembering all too well the eagerness in Travers’ voice, the obvious direction of the Council Head’s questions when he had first learned that Buffy had in fact survived her encounter with the Master, despite the fact that another Slayer had been Called. 

Ignoring the sudden bitterness in his mouth, Giles put his hand over hers. “Buffy, you’ve fulfilled your duties to the utmost. You are no longer the Slayer. If you wish to continue, that’s your prerogative, not the Council’s.” 

He watched as she struggled to maintain her composure, a myriad of emotions flitting across her face. Then, before he knew what was happening, she enveloped him in a big bear hug, which he immediately returned.

They sat like that for a few moments before she pulled back, her expression serious. 

“Do you think I should go ahead with this magical training? In England, like Dumbledore wants?” she asked quietly. 

Giles hesitated. He had been thinking on the very subject all night, and he hadn’t yet come to a conclusion. 

“I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Wizards, the British Ministry particularly, can be arrogant to the point of dangerous, their penchant for secrecy and tradition overriding good sense at times--”

“Yeah, I don't know any stuffy organizations like that,” Buffy deadpanned.

He pointedly ignored her, though inwardly he was heartened to see a bit of her old self. “You _will_ need some sort of training, however, and Professor Dumbledore does have a reputation for doing what’s right instead of what’s proper. He’s also one of the few individuals who could -- and seemingly _would_ \-- protect you from the Council, should they try anything; not to mention the fact that he’s the Headmaster at one of the finest Wizarding schools in the world. You could have far worse individuals in your corner, as it were. That being said, I’d like to know what the ‘complications’ he was referring to before you make any decisions. In the meantime, I’ve also taken it upon myself to message an old acquaintance of mine for some information, so hopefully we’ll have a bit more clarity one way or another.” 

Buffy’s brow drew together in confusion. “You’re getting info behind Dumbledore’s back? You don’t trust him?” 

Giles chose his words very carefully. He didn’t want to give her the wrong impression, but he also didn’t want to hide anything from her. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. 

“I do trust him, but I don’t necessarily think he’s telling us everything, either. That may partly be because he doesn’t want to overwhelm you any more than he already has, or because he’s simply exercising caution on his part. We certainly haven’t told him everything about us. Just because he’s not forthcoming, however, doesn’t mean we don’t need to know.” 

Buffy nodded slowly. “Okay… I can get behind that. What about going to Salem?”

“That is certainly an option, one that may be less disruptive for you,” Giles agreed. “And though I believe the American Ministry is a bit disorganized, that may actually work to our advantage. Of course, there’s... there’s also the matter of your family.”

He hated to bring it up, but it had to be said.

Just as he suspected, it hung in the air between them, filling the room with an oppressive silence. He could practically see Buffy shutting herself down emotionally. Before he could say something, anything to keep her connected, the phone rang. 

He fully intended to ignore it. From Buffy’s body language, however, he could see that she was firmly out of his reach. 

Cursing under his breath, Giles stood. In three large strides, he reached the phone and yanked it up to ear none too gently. “What is it?”

The voice on the other line was not pleased by his tone. 

“Mr. Giles, this is Principal Snyder. You need to come to the school _immediately_.”

Then, without waiting for his reply, Snyder hung up.

“Dammit,” Giles swore again. He ran a hand over his face and looked at Buffy. “That was Principal Snyder. I’m guessing he made an unpleasant discovery in the library.”

All the blood drained from Buffy’s face. “You mean--”

Giles rushed to reassure her. “No, no. I made sure to take care of _that_. I cannot say the same for the rest of the library, however. I had hoped for more time to fix what I could, but apparently that is not going to be possible.” 

He could see the conflict in her eyes, the worry. There was nothing she could do, however; they both knew that, and after a moment, she acquiesced.

“Okay, I should go home anyway,” she said as she glanced over at the clock. She jumped to her feet when she saw what time it was. “Oh my god! I’ve got to go!”

Giles winced. “Yes, I’m sorry about that. I had thought to wake you, but you looked... peaceful,” he said quietly. “As though you needed the rest.”

She gave him a small smile, one that almost reached her eyes. “I did,” she admitted. 

She hesitated then, as if she were on the verge of saying more, but she remained silent. 

Giles put a hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away. “Will you be okay? Do you want me to be there with you?”

Buffy thought about this before replying. “Not at first,” she said slowly. “But maybe after? I’ll have to explain everything to her. Magic, vampires, and everything in between. I’ll probably need your help there, considering what happened the last time I tried to convince her...”

She trailed off. She gave a big, fake smile and quickly walked over toward the door. As she pulled it open, she called out over her shoulder to him.

“So I’ll call, okay?” she called out. 

Before he could answer, or even offer her a ride home, she was gone.

Giles was tempted to follow her, but he knew it would do no good. She would only brush him off again, so instead he quickly gathered together a few things and walked out the door himself. Soon, all his thoughts were on the library. 

No matter how much Snyder might have suspected him of having knowledge about what had happened there, Giles was fairly certain the principal could not implicate him in any wrongdoing. Still, when he approached the officer standing at front door to the school, he prepared himself for the worst. 

“Hello, I’m--”

“Rupert!” 

Giles gave a start of surprise at the figure rapidly ascending the stairs. “Jenny? What are you doing here?” 

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just received a summons from His Royal Highness.”

Giles frowned, wondering if perhaps Snyder knew more than he had originally thought. If so, he dearly hoped he hadn’t dragged Jenny into this mess. Unfortunately, with the police officer in front of him, he couldn’t ask. 

Feeling a bit frustrated, Giles turned toward the man. “Rupert Giles, the school librarian. This is Jenny Calendar, the computer teacher. Principal Snyder requested that we come down.”

“Identification, please.”

Giles immediately produced his. After a moment of fishing through her handbag, Jenny did the same. 

“Wait here,” the officer grunted, before taking their licenses and disappearing into the school. 

Giles immediately turned toward Jenny. 

“Jenny, if I in any way--”

But she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “You worry too much, Rupert,” she said, a teasing look in her eye. It quickly evaporated, though. “How’s Buffy?”

Giles hesitated. He hated lying, but if he wanted Buffy’s cover story to stick, he had to, for both Buffy and Jenny’s safety. 

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” he replied. Then, speaking barely above a whisper, he added, “Buffy’s no longer the Slayer, however. Another girl has been Called.”

Jenny’s eyes grew round. “But how? She killed the Master.”

As she spoke, the most peculiar look entered her eyes at that, one that Giles couldn’t quite decipher, one that was gone almost as soon as it had appeared.

Though he was a bit mystified by it, Giles continued on as if nothing were amiss. “I’m not entirely sure. She may have simply experienced some residual effects, coupled with some incredible luck. But her powers have most definitely passed on to another.”

“That’s great… right?” she asked. 

He nodded. “Indeed. In fact, I’m wondering if it might be in her best interest to leave the Hellmouth for a bit,” he said. When she began to smile her approval at this suggestion, he quickly added, “Of course, I will be leaving as well, as my services are no longer needed here.”

Her smile noticeably dimmed. “Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense.”

It was a bittersweet moment for Giles. On the one hand, he felt compelled to say something, to address the disappointment they both obviously felt. On the other, there was simply nothing left to say. 

“It’s about time!”

Giles and Jenny both gave a little jump as Snyder approached, his face drawn into a scowl. As soon as he saw that he had their attention, he turned on his heel, clearly intending that they follow. 

They silently marched past the main foyer into the hallway. When they reached the administrative offices, Snyder turned and pointed to Jenny.

“You, in there. The officer there will tell you what to do,” he barked. Then he turned to Giles. “You, follow me.”

Though his fists clenched in anger, Giles bit back his temper and did as he was told -- though not before watching Jenny walk away, feeling a distinct sense of regret as she disappeared behind a door. 

By the time they finally reached the library, Giles had pushed away any lingering thoughts of what might have been and prepared himself for what lay beyond the double doors. 

Then he moved past the officer guarding the door and entered. 

The gasp that he let out was not even the slightest bit contrived. But then, the damage to the library was far more extensive than when he had left it.

“What happened?” he exclaimed. 

Principal Snyder glowered. “Vandals, probably one of the miscreants that litter the hallways here,” he said. “You need to catalogue what’s missing or broken.”

Numbly, Giles nodded. “Yes, of course,” he murmured. 

He only vaguely registered when Snyder left, muttering something about the sheer stupidity in banning corporal punishment. He was too busy looking at the ruins of his library.

It looked like the place had been ransacked. Books were scattered all about, chairs upended and bookshelves overturned. No area seemed to have been spared. His own office was particularly hard hit. All the drawers were open, their contents flung onto the floor. Most of the furniture itself lay in pieces.

Slowly, he began to pick through the wreckage. 

He had only set his desk to rights when he heard Jenny call out, rather urgently.

With a frown, he walked out into the main portion of the library. The relief on her face was immediate, despite the fact that she was obviously peeved at the way the officer outside the library was obviously keeping an eye on her.

“I need to check the library computer.”

Giles felt his frown deepened. “Of course.”

He gestured toward the blasted thing, but Jenny didn’t move.

“I need you to type in the passwords,” she explained. 

A sense of dread filled him. Jenny knew very well what the passwords were; she was the one who had set them. 

Walking as quickly as he could, he made his way toward the computer. Jenny did the same. As she pretended to wait for him to log on, she turned slightly so the officer couldn’t see her. 

“Rupert, someone broke into the administrative computers. The only thing they tried to access was student records, and even then, it looks like they were only interested in those with last names from S to Z.”

+++

“Hello? Buffy?” Joyce called out as she walked into the house, tossing her keys and purse on the small table next to the door and kicking off her shoes with a sigh.

She had spent the whole day running errands, and she was glad to finally be off her feet. She wanted nothing more than to order some Chinese food for dinner and watch a movie with Buffy -- where she could then subtly try to pry some details about the dance out of her daughter.

After calling out a few more times and searching both floors, however, she realized that Buffy wasn’t home yet. 

Joyce frowned and went to check the messages on the machine, but there was nothing there. 

It was getting late. It wasn’t like Buffy not to at least call by now. 

She picked up the phone and began dialing Willow’s number. Before she could finish, however, there was a knock at the door. 

Joyce’s heart froze, her mind immediately thinking the worst, that something had happened to Buffy. It was almost a relief when she flung open the door and saw a little boy there -- until she noticed that he was crying. 

“Can I help you?” Joyce asked, her voice full of concern.

“My mom said I could walk home from my friend’s house, and I thought I knew the way,” the boy sniffled, valiantly trying to fight back the tears. “But it’s dark out now and I... I think I’m lost.”

With that a fresh new set of tears started. 

Joyce immediately reached out from the doorway and wrapped her arms around the boy, her mothering instincts in full swing. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you come inside and we’ll try to call your mom?”

To her surprise, the sobs stopped. “Thank you, Mrs. Summers. That sounds like a great idea,” the boy said, his voice completely calm, carrying no trace of the fear that was there seconds before. 

“You’re welcome,” she replied, a little uncertainly. Then she frowned and pulled back as it hit her. “Wait, how do you know--”

The words died in her throat when she caught sight of his face. Before she could scream, the boy pushed her back into her house with more strength than any person should have, let alone a child. 

The last she she remembered before she hit her head against the wall was the look in his eye -- his eerie, yellow eye.

+++

A/N: Am I the only one who ever wondered why the vamps just didn't attack Buffy's house?


	8. Flashpoint

+++

“Is Hank Summers my father?”

Buffy practiced saying the words over and over again as she walked home. 

It should have been easy; it was just one little sentence, yet it stuck in her throat each and every time.

How could it not? Hank Summers _was_ her father. He was the one who took her to the ice show on her birthday. He was the one who had put the fear of God into Brian, her date to the middle school dance. He was the one who had picked her up when she had fallen off her bike. He was the one who had _been_ there for her.

He hadn’t done it because their DNA was the same. He had done it because he _loved_ her, because he still loved her. Sure, their quality time had been cut way down since the divorce, but that was just a casualty of her move to Sunnydale. 

_But what if that’s not the reason?_ a tiny voice in the back of her head said. 

The thought made Buffy almost trip over her own feet. 

It had always been a fear of hers that she had been the reason behind her parents’ divorce. Though they had fought a lot before she had been Called, they had taken it to a whole new level afterwards. Add to that the fact that her dad had actually filed for while she was in the psych ward, and well, Buffy really didn’t believe in coincidences, no matter what her parents said. 

But what if it wasn’t because of her Calling? What if it was because her father had found out the truth and didn’t want anything to do with her anymore, since she wasn’t his? 

Buffy tried to tell herself that it wasn’t possible, that her dad loved her and her imagination was just getting the better of her. After all, she still didn’t even know for sure if any of it was true. But now that the thought was there, it wouldn’t go away, and it brought a bunch of other less than pleasant thoughts with it. 

She felt like she was going to be sick. She just couldn’t take it, the not knowing. It was eating away at her.

Desperate to get some answers, Buffy broke out into a jog. By the the time she reached the last few streets, she was practically sprinting, her step only faltering when her house came into view.

There was a kid standing on the porch, hugging her mom. That in itself was a little weird. Then the kid turned his head a little and she caught sight of his face.

Buffy felt her blood run cold. It was the Anointed One. 

Before she could even process the fact that the littlest vampire was standing on her doorstep hugging her _mom_ , he spotted her. He immediately turned toward her mother and pushed her into the house, making sure to send Buffy an evil little grin as he did.

Then he _walked into her house_ and slammed the door shut. 

Buffy had never run so quickly in her life. The neighbors’ houses passed by in a blur. When she finally reached the front door to her house, she didn’t break stride; she simply dropped her shoulder and charged. 

The door gave way with a loud _crack!_ , splintering around Buffy. She felt the bite of the wooden shards as she pushed her way through, but she ignored it. All she could think about was getting to her mom.

She found them in the dining room. Her mom was seated in one of the chairs on the far wall; she was clearly unconscious, her head lolling to the side like she was a rag doll. The Anointed One stood behind her, using one hand to hold her upright, the other to grip her throat, his claws digging into the sensitive flesh there. 

Buffy felt herself practically vibrating with anger, which only increased when she tried to step into the room and was rebuffed.

“That’s close enough.”

Clenching her fists, Buffy tried to calm down. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“I want the Master’s Bones,” he serenely replied.

Buffy felt her breath catch. She tried her best not to show it, though, and instead made a face.

“Why do you need those gross things? Gonna cry yourself to sleep at night on them?”

His smile dimmed a little at this. “Just give them to me, and I won’t kill her.”

With a bravado she didn’t feel, Buffy smirked. “I know you’re the Annoying One and all, but you really still have the mind of a child. I mean, seriously, I don’t give you the bones, you kill my mother. I give you the bones, you get what you want, and you kill my mother. What part of that would make me want to do what you say?”

She knew she was taking a gamble in saying this, but she had no other choice. She needed to buy herself some time to think. 

She didn’t know where the bones were. The last time she had seen them was in the library the night she killed him. And in her dreams, of course. They were permanently implanted there, but--

Her dreams. In a rush of sickening clarity, Buffy understood; the ritual, the blood, the Master resurrected. She hadn’t been having nightmares. They were prophecies. Which meant that if she did what the Anointed One wanted, she would be trading her mother’s life for the Master’s. 

Could she do that, especially when there was a very good chance her mother wasn’t going to walk away from this alive no matter what?

Thankfully, the Anointed One was oblivious to her inner dialogue.

“But I really won’t kill her, not if you do what I say,” he promised. “I don’t care if she lives. Her end will come soon enough. Everyone’s will.”

His smile returned at this cryptic threat. Buffy refused to take the bait. But then, she already knew what he meant.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t have them on me. I must have left them in my other outfit,” she said. “Seriously, were you the brainchild behind this brilliant plan?”

The Anointed One actually pouted. “I thought I’d have a little more time before you came home,” he said defensively. “Just go get them. I know you know where they are.”

“And leave you alone with my mother?” Buffy laughed. “Not gonna happen.”

His patience finally started to wear thin. “You don’t have a choice,” he sneered, squeezing a little tighter. “And don’t think about getting help, either.”

As he spoke, Buffy noticed the shadows in front of the windows. 

Vampires. They were surrounding her house. 

Buffy hesitated, unsure of what she should do. That, of course, was the exact moment her mother started to come around.

“Buffy… wha…” her mom said groggily, absently pulling at the restriction around her throat. 

Her eyes flew open when she realized it wasn’t going away, all her mental fogginess instantly turning to terrified confusion as she futilely clawed at the Anointed One’s hand. 

Before Buffy could even attempt to calm her down, the Anointed One made a sound of impatience.

“So what do you say, Slayer? Your mother for the Master’s bones?”

The sound of the Anointed One’s voice startled her mom out of her shock.

“Buffy, what’s going on?” she cried, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “Who is this boy? How does he know you? And what’s this about _bones_?”

“Tell her, Slayer,” the Anointed One taunted. “Tell her why she might die tonight.”

Buffy bit her lip. She could have made up an excuse; she probably _should_ have, just so her mother wouldn’t completely freak out. But she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. Aside from the fact that it would have been a very lame and very unbelievable story, she was tired of all the lies. 

She looked her mom straight in the eye. “He’s a vampire, Mom. He’s here because I’m the Slayer.”

She saw the words register with her mother, watched as they settled over her. A moment later, she watched the denial set in. 

“NO. It can’t be true,” her mother exclaimed, almost desperately. “Don’t talk like that… again.”

Buffy laughed, one that was verging on the hysterical. “Okay, mom. A vampire doesn’t have you by the throat right now. He’s just a freakishly strong ten year old in need of a nail clipper. Continue living in the land of denial. You’re good at that. Is that what you did when you discovered you were pregnant with some British guy’s baby?”

The words came out in a rush; she couldn’t stop them. Before she could apologize and take them back, however, all the blood drained from her mother’s face. 

“How did you…” she whispered. 

Those three little words seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Buffy staggered backward, unable to breathe. It was true.

For a moment, her mother looked back at her, her anguish and guilt written all over face. It quickly disappeared, though, replaced with a look of sheer determination. 

“Buffy, whatever he wants, don’t do it. Just get out of here. Don’t worry about me.”

Buffy didn’t know what her mother’s intention was, trying to sacrifice herself like that in order to protect her daughter, or what she thought Buffy’s reaction would be. She was pretty sure her mom didn’t expect her anger. 

“No, you do not get to play the martyr here, not after dropping that bombshell on me!” she hissed. “We are going to--”

“Enough!” the Anointed One cut in, clearly not thrilled that he had lost control of the situation.

Buffy’s eyes flew up to meet his, skewering him with a gaze so fierce he flinched. “What? Going to throw a temper tantrum now?”

Furious, the Anointed One snarled at her as his claws dug further into her mother’s throat, scoring it deeply. 

Whether he meant to do damage or just send a warning message, Buffy didn’t know. She didn’t care. She had too many emotions roiling around inside her, too much anger, and something snapped. Her vision went red, red as the blood now flowing from her mother’s neck, and at that moment, she knew one thing. She was going to make sure he burned in Hell for all eternity for this, even if she had to follow him there herself. 

Before she could actually follow through with her promise, however, there was a sudden flash of light. The next thing she knew, screams filled the room as the Anointed One was engulfed in flames. 

It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t the only one screaming.

Though unexpected pain of fire made the Anointed One let her mom go, sparing her from the worst of the flames, he managed to grab her by the arm when she tried to escape. 

“NO!” Buffy shouted. 

Her heart in her throat, she raced across the room and tore her mom away from the Anointed One. He didn’t give up so easily, though, and immediately lunged for them. Buffy, weighted down with her mother, was only able sidestep him. 

Thankfully, it was enough. Now a literal fireball, the Anointed One went careening past them, crashing into the floor as his legs gave out. Moments, later he was ash. 

Buffy barely saw. She was too busy putting out the flames that were eating away at her mother’s clothes. As soon as they were extinguished, she ripped the bottom of her own shirt off and began tying the fabric around her mother’s neck, trying to stem the bleeding. 

“Buffy, I--”

“Shh, Mom, it’s okay,” she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice as she worked. 

Though the Anointed One hadn’t nicked the artery, there was still a lot of blood, and her mom was already starting to lose consciousness. Add to that the burns on her arm…

Buffy swallowed heavily as she continued to work.

Behind her, she could hear the other vampires hissing and snarling at her as they watched what was happening from the windows and broken door. Though they were obviously enraged, they couldn’t do a single thing about it without an invitation, though it wasn’t for lack of effort. 

It was a small blessing, one that was getting smaller by the moment. 

In his attempt to attack Buffy and her mom, the Anointed One had managed to set half of the first floor on fire. The drapes, the rugs, the furniture, the stairs to the second floor. Flames devoured them all, and they were starting to spread. 

Buffy had to get her mom out of there, fast. 

As soon as she finished tying the last knot of the makeshift bandage, she was on her feet, assessing her options. The front of the house was completely out of the question. She’d have to carry her mother through the flames just to reach it, only to face a cadre of vamps on the other side. Same with the windows.

That left the back door. Though she had no doubt there were vampires there as well, it was her best bet. 

Hoisting her mother up as gently as she could, Buffy dashed into the kitchen, where she began yanking drawers open, looking for some kind of weapon. She hit the jackpot when she found the butcher knife and some wooden spoons.

With her new weapons in one arm and her mother in her other, she made a beeline for the door. Ignoring the four vampires on the other side for a moment, she opened it and set her mother just inside the door frame where she would be out of reach from both the vamps and the fire.

Then she took a deep breath and charged into the waiting vamps. Instead of running into them head on, however, she dropped down at the last second into a sliding kick, right as she crossed the threshold. 

Just as she had hoped, the vamps went down like a set of bowling pins. Before two of them could get to their feet again, they were dust. 

Rolling to her feet, Buffy faced the remaining two vamps. She knew it was only a matter of time before the vamps at the front of the house came around, so she wanted to take care of these two before then.

Unfortunately, they were thinking along the same lines, and they rapidly put some distance between her and them. 

They were joined by their friends a few seconds later, making it twelve to one. 

Grimly, Buffy gripped her weapons, bracing herself for the coming attack. They, in turn, began to surround her.

Knowing it was a losing battle if she let them get behind her, she attacked, the edge of her knife slicing through the belly of the closest vamp trying to sneak behind her. A quick jab with a spoon, and he was toast. 

Before his ashes even hit the ground, another vamp was practically on top of her. She threw him off into two others, but it left her back vulnerable, a fact that another vamp immediately exploited. 

Her back exploded in pain as he made contact, and she fell to her knees. It was a mistake she couldn’t afford. She tried to get up, but the vamps began to pile on. 

“BUFFY!”

To her shock, in what had to be one of the best timed entrances _ever_ , Giles burst into the backyard, a crossbow in his hand. Not far behind him was Ms. Calendar; she had with her a stake and a squirt gun.

Giles fired into the crowd and hit a vampire square in the chest. As he exploded into dust, another vamp snarled and began to charge at him as he reloaded. Ms. Calendar hit her with the squirt gun right in the face. The vamp screamed and held her eyes as the holy water did its work -- never seeing the stake as it plunged for her heart. 

Distracted, the other vampires took their eyes off of Buffy. She made them pay dearly for it. With a burst of renewed strength, she threw them off of her and began slicing and dicing her way out. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Giles and Ms. Calendar continue their own attack. 

Unfortunately, they were still outnumbered, and though Giles’ and Ms. Calendar’s attack worked once, the vampires weren’t fooled again. Giles’ next two shots went wide, and Ms. Calendar ran out of holy water soon after that. While Buffy still had her knife, she was out of spoons and had several deep gashes to boot. With seven vampires still to go, it was not looking good. 

The vamps seemed to think so, too, advancing on the three of them with smiles on their face.

They didn’t know Buffy still had one more ace in the hole. Of course, she didn’t, either. 

In another moment of epic timing, Dumbledore suddenly appeared. Though the slight rise of his eyebrows revealed that he had not known what he was walking into, he took it all in stride, and, with a wave of his wand, sent a jet of golden light screaming towards one of the vampires. 

As soon as it made contact, the vampire was gone, disintegrated into nothingness. Two more quickly followed before the vamps had enough sense to run. Between Buffy and Giles, however, they didn’t make it very far. 

Before the dust had a chance to settle -- literally and figuratively -- Buffy dashed back into the house to her mother. 

She heard the others come up behind her, but her focus was on her mom. The bleeding from her neck had slowed significantly, but her arm looked... terrible.

Buffy fought back tears as she looked at the burns. 

“What did they do to her?” 

Buffy flinched at Ms. Calendar’s words. She looked up at the others hollowly. “They didn’t. I did this,” she said. “We have to get her to a hospital.”

Giles nodded. “My car is out front.”

“If I may,” Dumbledore interrupted.

At first, Buffy was confused, not quite sure what he was saying. She was also distracted by the fact that he was walking towards her from inside the house, which incidentally was no longer on fire. Then she saw the way he was extending his wand, pointing it at her mother in askance.

Buffy bit her lip before nodding. 

Dumbledore swished his wand in an intricate fashion, and suddenly the bleeding from her mom’s neck stopped entirely. Another swish, and the burns looked less angry. 

Then he stopped. 

“I’m afraid this is only temporary,” he explained apologetically. “These are magical burns, and they will take some time to heal. She needs a Healer.”

Buffy frowned, immediately understanding what he was getting at. “And I suppose you know just the one I can go to? How did you know to come here?” she asked. 

“The same way I located you before. Your use of magic,” he replied. “As for the Healer, I’m sure there are many qualified witches and wizards here as well. I will take you wherever you wish. Time is of the essence, though.”

Buffy bit her lip. She was being ridiculous. She knew that. At most, Dumbledore was taking advantage of an opportunity here. Going to England had never been her plan, though, and she still had misgivings about the whole situation. 

But this wasn’t about her, not at the moment. It was about her mom. Going to a normal hospital would raise lots of questions, one that Buffy wouldn’t be able to answer; ones that could possibly send them both to the psych ward. Besides, she didn’t have to stay. Once her mother was healed, she could leave.

She wasn’t ready to do this alone, though. 

“Giles?”

Giles looked around at the wreckage uncertainly. “Someone should stay behind and take care of this mess,” he began. 

Buffy felt her heart sink until Ms. Calendar of all people stepped in. 

“Go, Rupert, I’ll take care of things here.” 

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance, once Mrs. Summers is settled?” Dumbledore offered.

Ms. Calendar nodded. Then she looked at Giles. “She needs you.”

Something passed between the two of them before Giles turned back to Buffy and nodded. 

Satisfied, Dumbledore picked up one of the stones that paved the walkway and held it out to Buffy and Giles, indicating that they should touch it. 

“If you will,” he said.

Tentatively, they both touched it, Buffy holding her mom’s hand in hers.

Dumbledore nodded. “Portkey travel is perfectly safe, though you will feel a tug behind the navel when it first activates. Now, on the count of three… 1… 2… 3… _Portus_.”

+++

Hidden in the shadows in a neighboring yard, Absalom silently raged, furious that their plans had been thwarted, his brethren dead. He had underestimated the girl… and perhaps overestimated the Anointed One, a mere child for all his exalted status.

Then there was the wizard, of course. He looked familiar, though Absalom couldn’t quite place him. That in itself was an annoyance. What really struck him, however, was his presence at all.

Absalom frowned. He had never heard of one allying himself with a slayer. It was a dangerous prospect, one he was all but powerless to prevent.

And yet... it was a powerful piece of information to have. 

Perhaps all was not lost after all.

+++

A/N: I hope no one wanted the Anointed One to be the Big Bad of this story, because clearly that ain’t happening! 


	9. The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

+++

As Buffy sat on the ground, cradling her mother in her lap, she stared up at the building in front her.

It had to be one of the most structurally unsound places she had ever seen. 

The whole thing was insanely crooked, with story after story plopped haphazardly on the one below it, like a Jenga tower gone wrong. She didn’t even want to guess why there were so chimneys, let alone why they were sticking out at random, odd angles. It also didn’t escape her notice that there wasn’t another building as far as the eye could see, just rolling countryside.

“This isn’t a hospital… is it?” she asked. 

Dumbledore shook his head, and Buffy felt both relieved and really, really pissed. 

“Then why are we here?” she demanded. “My mom needs help.”

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “Which she will receive here,” he promised. 

Though she still wasn’t convinced, she knew that standing outside wasn’t really an option either, so she got to her feet, her mother in her arms. 

Surprisingly, it took a lot of effort -- much more than she had anticipated. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle the weight. Her problem was that, between her mother’s height and multiple injuries, she couldn’t get a good grip. She ended up readjusting her hold several times before she started walking, and even then, she was worried she was hurting her mom.

Noticing her struggle, Dumbledore held up his wand. “May I?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. 

“ _Mobilicorpus_.”

Buffy gasped as her mother gently floated up from her arms and hovered in the air, completely stable. As Dumbledore began to walk toward the building -- or maybe it was a house? -- her mom followed. 

“Shall we?”

Buffy jumped slightly at the sound of Giles’ voice. She quickly recovered, though, and nodded, falling into step behind Dumbledore -- though not before scooping a sizable stick off the ground and tucking into her pants. It wasn’t much of a weapon, more of a security stake than anything else, but she didn’t care. 

If Giles thought it was weird, he didn’t say anything. He just walked next to her. 

When they finally reached the door, Dumbledore let loose a loud rap. 

“Arthur!” he called out, his voice echoing in the still night air. “Molly!”

Buffy held her breath as she waited. 

After a few long moments, a light went on in one of the upper windows. Then they heard someone coming down some steps rapidly. A few more steps and the door opened a crack. 

A red-headed man peered through, his face illuminated by a small ball of light at the tip of his wand. From what she could see, he had on one of those old-fashioned nightcaps. It was then that Buffy realized that, not only was it the middle of the night here, but this was in fact someone’s house. 

“Albus? Is that you?”

“Yes, Arthur, it is. Forgive me for intruding at such an early hour, but it is an emergency.”

“What? An emergency?” another voice, one coming from further inside the house, asked. 

The door was flung open a second later, and a red-headed woman in a nightgown and robe burst outside, pushing Arthur out of the way in the process. Her gaze raked across them, stopping at Buffy’s mom with a gasp. 

“Oh, goodness! Come in, quickly!” she exclaimed, motioning for them to go inside. “Take her to Ginny’s room, Albus, the first room on the right after the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Dumbledore replied. Before he passed through the doorway, however, he looked at the guy. “Arthur, could you fetch Poppy through the usual channels? Please let her know that there is a Muggle who has lost a significant amount of blood and has suffered burns from an Incendio flame.” 

Arthur’s jaw dropped, his gaze darting between Buffy, her mother, and Giles, as if he didn’t know who he found the most interesting. It took a pointed kick from Molly to snap him out of it. 

“Of course, Albus, right away,” he said. As he hurried inside the house, he gave them one last backward glance before. Then he disappeared from sight. 

“And I’ll fetch some extra linens and bandages,” Molly added, following Arthur in.

Satisfied, Dumbledore finally walked into the house. He had obviously been there before, because he knew exactly where he was going even though the house was pitch dark, his stride purposeful as he made his way through what looked like a kitchen.

Buffy and Giles didn’t have it as easy. Even with her Slayer night vision, she bumped into things along the way, partly because the house was _really_ cluttered, and partly because her eyes were glued to her mother. 

Giles had even less luck. She heard him curse several times before they finally made it to a bedroom, the one they had been directed to behind the kitchen. 

Once inside, Dumbledore gently set Joyce on top of the bed there. Then he murmured something, and the room flooded with light. 

Buffy squinted, her eyes not ready for the sudden change. The blindingly pink walls didn’t help. In fact, if she hadn’t already been looking at her mother, she might not have seen the sudden movement on the wall directly over the bed. As it was, she didn’t know _what_ exactly was moving, just that it was heading straight for her mom. 

With no time to think, Buffy grabbed the stick she had hidden on her and threw it with all her might. 

There was a loud _thunk_ as the stick embedded itself in the wall, followed by a shocked silence from everyone -- including Buffy.

For now that her vision was clear, she saw that nothing was threatening her mom. There was, however, a poster above the bed; one with a woman dressed up in some kind of sports gear -- _and she was moving_. 

Well, she _had_ been moving. That was what had caught Buffy’s eye in the first place. Now she was alternating between glaring at Buffy and the brand new hole in her poster, obviously highly offended.

“Uh, sorry?” Buffy offered. 

The woman just turned her nose up at her.

Shocked and a little sheepish, Buffy turned toward the other two in the room.

Giles looked just as surprised as she did. Dumbledore, on the other hand, looked amused, his eyes twinkling brightly. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe to explain what the heck was going on. Before he could, however, Molly came rushing into the room, her arms full of supplies. 

“Is everything--” she began. When she saw the stick in her wall, she stopped, her face suddenly blank as she stared at the damage. “Oh my.”

Before Buffy could move, let alone muster up an adequate apology, Dumbledore stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Molly. In our haste to come here, I neglected to explain to Ms. Summers some of the peculiarities of our world, such as moving photographs and paintings. She only thought to protect her mother.”

Molly’s expression instantly melted, and she dropped the blankets in her arms on a nearby desk and enveloped Buffy in a hug. 

“Oh, you poor dear,” she cooed, before pulling back so she could look Buffy in the eye. “I’m sure this is all quite a nasty shock for you. Most Muggles would have fainted dead away by now--”

“Actually, Mr. Giles and Mrs. Summers are Muggles,” Dumbledore interrupted. “Buffy, however, is a witch.”

Witch, not slayer. It sounded strange to Buffy. 

Thankfully, before she could dwell on it too much, Arthur came into the room. This time, he was fully dressed and out of breath. Behind him was an older woman, wearing a heavy cloak and cap and carrying a large bag. 

“Ms. Summers and Mr. Giles, this is our Healer, Madam Pomfrey,” Dumbledore said. “Madam Pomfrey, I’m sorry to call upon you at such an hour, but Ms. Summers’ mother has been injured.”

Madam Pomfrey gave Buffy and Giles a brief but warm nod. Then she was all business as she walked over to the bed, her eyes quickly assessing Buffy’s mom. 

“What happened?” 

Again, Dumbledore took the lead and gave her a summary of everything that had happened. Buffy didn’t mind, especially since he tactfully left out the part where _she_ had accidentally started the fire. He could also describe the spells he had performed on her mother, which Madam Pomfrey took note of. 

“She was lucky you were there, Albus. Otherwise, the damage could have been far more extensive than it is,” she said. Then she stood up straight. “Everyone out.”

Molly and Arthur immediately did as they were told. Buffy, however, didn’t budge an inch. Neither did Giles, though he looked mildly uncomfortable.

Buffy could understand why. Regular doctors didn’t let family stand around and watch while they worked. Why would magical ones be any different? The only problem was, there was no way Buffy was letting her mom out of her sight. 

She stood firmly in place under the Healer’s stern gaze, ready for the inevitable showdown.

Before that could happen, Dumbledore stepped forward, recognizing the situation for what it was.

“Madam Pomfrey, under ordinary circumstances, I would not dare suggest that Ms. Summers be allowed to stay. However, she has only recently learned that she’s a witch and is a bit apprehensive of our ways. Could she perhaps sit in the corner, unobtrusively and out of your way?”

This last part was directed at Buffy, letting her know that she had to give a little to get a little.

While she didn’t do “unobtrusive” well on the whole, she knew a good compromise when she saw one. She quickly nodded her agreement. As a show of good faith, she sat down in the only chair in the room, one that was placed next to a desk in the corner.

Madam Pomfrey frowned. Clearly, this was not her first choice. After a long pause, however, she relented. 

“All right,” she replied. She sent a pointed look toward Giles. “But _only_ her.”

Giles nodded and put a reassuring hand on Buffy’s shoulder. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Then he left the room. Dumbledore followed soon after, closing the door behind him.

Before it clicked shut, Madam Pomfrey began to work. Buffy watched as she pulled out her wand and waved it over her mom, who immediately began to glow different colors. 

“Poor thing,” the Healer murmured as she reached into her bag and began rifling around. After a moment, she pulled out a small bottle with what looked like red liquid inside. “Ah, here it is. Blood Replenisher.” 

She made it sound like she was just talking to herself, but Buffy knew better. She was explaining what she was going to do for Buffy’s benefit. 

Buffy could have kissed the woman. In return, she renewed her resolve to sit as silently as she could. 

Little did she know that she would be put to the test a second later when Madam Pomfrey waved her wand over her mom again, this time waking her up. 

“Wha… I...” 

Buffy gripped her seat, fighting every instinct to jump to her feet and rush to her mom’s side, knowing it would not be well-received -- and very possibly thrown out of the room.

Though the chair creaked and groaned under her, it held, and just as importantly, so did she.

“Shh,” Madam Pomfrey said gently, holding the bottle up to her mom’s mouth. “Drink this. It will help.”

Completely out of it and just barely conscious, her mom complied. As soon as Madam Pomfrey deemed that she had drunk enough, she pulled the potion away and replaced it with another bottle, this one with purple stuff inside, which her mom again drank without question. 

It must have been something to make her sleep, because she had barely finished swallowing before she was out, a peaceful look on her face.

With a loud exhalation, Buffy relaxed her grip on the chair, though she made sure to keep her eyes glued to Madam Pomfrey to see what she was going to do next To her surprise, the Healer turned toward _her_. 

“I need to cleanse the wounds on her arm. This potion may cause a little smoking as it makes contact. It also may sting a bit, but it is necessary to prevent infection,” she explained in a very matter-of-fact tone.

Clearly, Madam Pomfrey was a very smart woman. Watching smoke rise from her mom was not an easy thing for Buffy to do. By knowing what to expect, however, she could keep her promise to stay out of the way -- with a readjusted grip on her chair.

After that potion had been applied, Madam Pomfrey applied a thick orange paste on the burns. Then she cleaned all the blood and dirt away with a few swipes of her wand, healing any scratches she found along the way.

When she was finally finished, she turned toward Buffy.

“Now it’s your turn, Ms. Summers.”

Buffy stared at her blankly. “Huh?”

Madam Pomfrey arched her eyebrow and looked her up and down. 

Confused, Buffy did the same. She was almost surprised to see the dozens of cuts that covered her, having completely forgotten about the injuries she had gotten both from the door splintering and the subsequent fight. There was no major damage, everything pretty standard for a day of slaying -- at least, nothing that would still be there by morning. 

Because she couldn’t exactly tell Madam Pomfrey that, however, she had no choice but to give in.

It was actually a really interesting process, one that kept Buffy riveted despite her own feelings toward hospitals and the medical profession in general. She got the smoking potion, too, which stung a little, just as Madam Pomfrey had explained it would. The Healer was quick to move on to healing the cuts and cleaning all the grime off of her, though, which left her with a warm, tingling sensation, one that actually felt really nice. 

Buffy stole a glance at her mother. She hoped that she was feeling the same. 

“She will be fine,” Madam Pomfrey reassured her. “It will take some time for her to fully recover and there will be a bit of pain along the way, but she will be fine.”

Buffy’s eyes snapped up, hope and disbelief warring within her. “Really?”

Madam Pomfrey paused in her ministrations to pat her on the cheek. “Yes, dear. Just make sure you apply the orange salve twice a day. Molly will know how to ease any pain, and I’ll come and check on her daily,” she promised. Then she took a step back and looked Buffy over with a critical eye. “That should do it for now. I’ll leave you here and let the others know the good news.” 

She quickly gathered up her bottles and potions in her bag and walked toward the door. Before she could leave, Buffy spoke up.

“Thank you.”

It came out harsh, harsher than she meant, but she didn’t trust herself to say more. 

Madam Pomfrey smiled in understanding and left, softly shutting the door behind her.

Buffy counted to ten. When she was sure no one was going to come in, she finally allowed her shoulders to sag, the weight of the day finally bearing down on her. 

It had been too close. Vamps had targeted her family, and she had almost lost her mother because of it. If that had happened, Buffy never would have forgiven herself.

A single, shuddering sob escaped before she managed to pull herself together. After taking a few deep breaths, Buffy dragged her chair over to the bed and sat down. She immediately reached for her mother’s hand. It was warm to the touch, and the warmth instantly spread into Buffy, soothing her as she laid her head on blanket next to her mom.

She had no idea what being a witch meant for her, or what she would have to do to control her powers. She didn’t even know where she was, or why she was there. In that one moment, as she sat her mother’s side, she allowed herself not to care.

And though she felt guilty even just thinking it, she was glad to have many miles between her and Sunnydale.

+++


	10. And now for something completely different

+++

Buffy awoke to the feeling of the early morning sun shining gently on her face as she lay bundled under the cozy weight of what felt like a dozen soft blankets. All in all, it wasn’t a bad way to wake up.

Of course, she could have been lying on the ground, exposed to the elements in nothing but her socks and she would have been fine with it. Her mom was going to be okay; that was the only thing that really mattered. The sun and the blankets were just icing on the cake. Or they were, anyway, until she remembered.

She had fallen asleep in a chair sitting next to her mother. 

Buffy’s eyes flew open as she bolted upright, all traces of sleep vanishing in an instant. To her immense relief, she saw that she was still in the same blindingly pink room. More importantly, her mom was there, too. Heck, even the poster was in its spot, the woman in it _still_ glaring at her hostilely. Only her chair was missing -- though the comfy chaise lounge sofa she found herself lying on bore a suspicious resemblance to it, right down to the soft but worn patterned upholstery. 

It wasn’t hard for her to put two and two together, and it equalled a boatload of magic. 

Buffy frowned. As much as she -- or more specifically, her back and neck -- appreciated the gesture, it was a little unsettling that it had happened without her ever waking up. Still, she quickly let it go. She knew when to pick her battles, and this wasn’t one of them. 

She needed to focus on the real priority. 

Buffy swung her legs over the side of the sofa and scooted down until she was sitting right next to her mom. She watched her sleep for a few minutes, feeling incredibly torn. Though her mother looked peaceful lying there with fresh orange goop on her arm, all Buffy wanted to do was wake her up, to make sure she really was okay. 

In the end, her head won out over her heart. Rest was the best thing for her mom, and Buffy knew it, so she pushed herself off the sofa and crept out of the room as quietly as she could -- though not before making a face at the poster as she passed by. 

As soon as she stepped outside the bedroom, she found herself in a small hallway. There, she could either go up the stairs or into the kitchen.

It was a no brainer. It was pretty safe to assume that the only thing upstairs was bedrooms, and, considering the late night everyone had had, even safer to assume that everyone was still asleep in the beds. Since Buffy’s idea of early morning hijinks really didn’t include busting in and waking them up _again_ , she immediately headed for the kitchen. 

It wasn’t until she reached the doorway that she realized how wrong she had been. The place was jumping. 

Giles and Arthur were sitting at the table presumably talking to each other, though their backs were to her, and Molly… well, Molly was a force unto herself.

She was zipping around the kitchen, moving from sink to stove to oven like a woman possessed. Instead of actually touching anything, however, she simply waved her wand, directing the spoons and pots and pans to do what she wanted.

It looked straight out of some Disney movie. Buffy fully expected a broomstick to push by her at any moment. The only thing missing was the sound -- and she wasn’t referring to the Mickey-led orchestra, either.

Buffy couldn’t hear a single thing in the kitchen. It was like someone had pressed the mute button.

Having already freaked out unnecessarily, first from the poster and then by the bed, Buffy forced herself not to overreact again. It helped that she could hear the sound of her breathing, the sound of floor creaking as she took a cautious step toward everyone.

It also helped that it only lasted a second or two; as soon as her foot crossed over the threshold from the hallway into the kitchen, she was practically hit with a wall of sound. Suddenly, she could hear Giles and Arthur’s very strange, very enthusiastic conversation about the Dewey Decimal system. She could hear Molly muttering to herself as she worked. She could hear the clink of the spoons and spatulas as they did their thing. 

Leaning against the doorframe, Buffy closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. They used magic so casually here, and apparently for _everything_. It would definitely take some getting used to. 

“On my! My Silencing Charm must not be what it used to be. I hope we didn’t wake you, dear!” 

Buffy looked up to see a very concerned Molly making a beeline for her. She straightened up and shook her head. 

“Nope. I was the one to wake you, actually. I’m sorry about that.”

“Oh, pish! We were glad to help. Any friend of Dumbledore’s is a friend of ours. Now come, sit down and I’ll fix you a plate for breakfast.”

Something about the way she phrased the part about Dumbledore got Buffy’s attention. Before she could put her finger on it, though, Molly was ushering her toward the table. Next thing she knew, she was sitting next to Giles with a plate full of food in front of her.

“Now eat up. You’ve been through quite an ordeal and need to keep up your strength,” Molly ordered sternly, as she looked Buffy over with a critical eye. “Though I imagine it will take quite a few good meals before we manage to put any meat on those bones.”

Then she turned back to the stove, apparently confident that her orders would be followed.

Buffy just stared. While it was true she hadn’t been eating that well lately -- hearing about her prophesized death and then actually dying had that effect -- she was surprised by Molly’s bluntness. 

Maybe sensing this, Arthur leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner.

“Better do what she says,” he whispered. “Or at least, _pretend_ to do what she says.”

“What was that?” Molly asked sharply, her hands on her hips as she whipped around to face them.

Arthur gave her a guileless look. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just telling Buffy here that the muffins are especially delicious.”

To add believability to his case, Buffy picked up a muffin from a basket on the table and took a bite.

Though Molly looked suspicious, this seemed to pacify her enough. She turned back to the task at hand without another word. For all his calm collectedness a moment earlier, Arthur looked visibly relieved.

Buffy smothered her laugh. They were adorable. And the muffins _were_ delicious. She happily took another bite. 

“How are you doing this morning?”

Her laughter fading a little, Buffy swallowed the bit of muffin in her mouth and turned toward Giles. It wasn’t his fault, but his quiet concern was like a splash of cold water to the face, dashing this illusion of normalcy, reminding her of all her troubles.

“Okay. Better than I was anyway,” she replied honestly. “How about you?”

“Just fine,” he reassured her, reaching out to give her hand a quick squeeze. “Arthur here has some… fascinating theories about non-magical inventions.”

Buffy smiled at Arthur, though this time it felt a little stiff. “So I heard. By the way, I know it’s a little late for intros, but I’m Buffy Summers.”

“Arthur Weasley,” he said as he held out his hand. “And this is Molly, my wife. Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you.”

As Buffy shook his hand, she kept her smile plastered to her face. Inside, however, she was frowning. 

Just like Molly’s comment about Dumbledore, Arthur’s introduction stuck out to her, but she couldn’t figure out why. 

As soon as the handshake was over, she quickly dug into her plate and began to eat, not because she was really that hungry, or because she was afraid of Molly’s wrath, but because she wanted some time to think it all over.

It wasn’t until she was almost through all her eggs that it hit her. 

She had no idea why Dumbledore had brought them here. It definitely wasn’t because there was a medical person in-house. Arthur had had to get Madam Pomfrey. And yet she highly doubted Dumbledore picked a name out of a hat. There had to be a reason. 

But what was it?

One possibility -- the one that made the most sense -- was that Molly and Arthur were the relatives Dumbledore had been hinting at. Clearly there were some issues with that theory, though. It was why Arthur and Molly’s comments didn’t sit quite right with her. Though they were really nice, they weren’t acting like she was a long lost relative.

So who were they? And why their house?

Buffy frowned. She had had enough of unanswered life-altering questions lately. She wanted answers, and there was only one way she was going to get them.

“Are you the relatives Professor Dumbledore was talking about?”

Molly and Arthur exchanged confused looks at her question.

“Relatives?” Molly repeated. “I’m certain we’re related to Albus in some way, all wizarding families are, but I would hardly call us relatives.”

“Perhaps most trusted and highly esteemed friends is more accurate?” a voice said from a doorway on the opposite side of the kitchen.

“Albus! Back so soon from the States, are you?” Molly greeted. “Well, have a seat, and I’ll get a plate for you.”

Probably used to this kind of mothering from her, Dumbledore didn’t argue. He just walked into the kitchen and headed straight for the table.

“Yes, affairs there concluded much more rapidly than I had expected, thanks to a very helpful woman named Jenny,” he said. As he took a seat across from Buffy, he looked around the table. “Good morning to you all.”

Buffy murmured a hello, but her mind whirling with the new information she had received. Molly and Arthur were definitely not related. Or if they were, they didn’t know the truth yet, because they clearly had no idea what she was talking about, having completely misunderstood her question.

Noticing her reticence, and knowing why since he had obviously heard her question, Dumbledore gave her a small smile.

“To answer your question, Ms. Summers, Molly and Arthur are not the family I mentioned. I daresay there are no familial relations at the table here at all.”

It did not escape Buffy’s notice that although he answered her question, he did it in a way so no one else knew what he was really saying. From what little she knew about him, it seemed like he did that a lot.

Unfortunately for him, she had no use for the cryptic. Or for being shut down without any real answers.

“Why did you bring us here?” she demanded. At everyone’s startled looks, she winced, realizing how it sounded. “That so did not come out the way I thought. I’m grateful for all everyone’s done. Really I am. I just don’t understand why we came here and not my lost long relative’s. Or -- and I can’t believe I of all people am saying this -- why not an actual hospital? You have those, right?”

Buffy could’ve sworn she saw something flash across Dumbledore’s face, a troubled look in his eye, before it disappeared.

“You have an aversion to hospitals?”

Not really wanting to get into her fear of all places antiseptic smelling, she shrugged. “Who doesn’t? And you still haven’t answered my question.”

She was vaguely aware that Molly and Arthur were staring at her. Dumbledore didn’t seem bothered, though, or surprised.

“Your uncle -- and your father -- come from an old Wizarding family, one of the oldest in fact,” he replied. “These families are not often tolerant of non-magical humans. I was afraid there might be certain… artifacts that could cause harm to those who either do not possess any magical ability or are unaccustomed to recognizing certain signs.”

If Molly and Arthur had been gaping at Buffy before, their jaws were practically on the ground now. She heard Molly murmur, “Albus, do you mean to say” before he continued speaking.

“As for the hospital, well, they would ask too many questions. They tend to take Muggle-related injuries quite seriously, you see. They would also wonder why a person of your age was still having bouts of accidental magic, leading to questions you might not want to answer just yet,” he said. He paused for a moment before adding, “They would also be required to report my presence to the Ministry, who are not overly fond of me at the moment.”

“Why not?” Buffy asked, feeling uneasy all of sudden.

“Because I am speaking truths they’d rather not hear,” Dumbledore calmly replied. “Many years ago, there was a certain dark Wizard who thought to rid the world of Muggles, believing them inferior to Wizards. He formed a group of followers, Death Eaters, and together they began a campaign of fear and murder--”

“You’re talking about Voldemort?” Giles gasped, which made the Weasleys flinch.

Dumbledore nodded. “Though I knew him when he was simply Tom. Fortunately, another group of Wizards, of which your uncle and the Weasleys were part, stood up to him. Though the cost was grave, Tom was finally defeated. He could not be destroyed, however, and recently he has managed to regain his strength to continue his mission of domination over the Wizarding world and then the world as a whole. Now--”

Buffy cut him off with a laugh, one that verged on hysterical. The cold, brittle feeling, the one she had felt after Master had died, suddenly returned, lodging itself firmly in her chest.

“And now I’m here, a Slayer without a cause. How perfect,” she said bitterly.

Molly and Arthur gasped at her little revelation, their gazes going back and forth between her and Giles, but she didn’t care. She was never really good with the whole secret identity thing anyway, and she was too furious with herself to even try. 

How could she not be? She saved her mother from vampires only to bring her to a war.

Dumbledore shook his head. “My intention was to give you the opportunity to meet your family and to learn how to control your magic. The timing is… unfortunate.”

“Or perfect, depending on who you are,” she retorted.

By the sympathetic look on his face, Dumbledore seemed to know that her anger wasn’t directed at him exactly but at fate in general.

“You may leave whenever you wish,” he began.

“How about now?” she muttered, knowing full well that wasn’t possible, something that everyone else in the room knew as well.

“--I only ask that you meet your uncle before you go.”

Buffy frowned. It was a reasonable enough request, but she didn’t like having something as big as this forced on her. On the other hand it was a way to put Dumbledore to the test and see if he was bluffing. And it was a way to get it over and done with once and for all.

It was also a way to escape all the sympathetic looks she was receiving.

Making her mind up then and there, she jumped to her feet, practically knocking her chair over in the process.

“Then let’s go right now.”

To her surprise, Dumbledore nodded. “As you wish.”

+++

Buffy stared up at the brick building, wishing she hadn’t been so impulsive back in the Burrow. There was no turning back now, though, so she took a deep breath and looked at Dumbledore.

“Ready when you are.”

He smiled back encouragingly and opened the door. As Buffy stepped inside, she was struck by how old the place looked. The front hallway was dark and dingy, with wallpaper peeling from the walls, and the chandeliers, though impressive, looked like they hadn’t been dusted in years. The only thing that looked halfway decent was some thick, red curtains that hung on the wall just inside the front doorway.

She heard Dumbledore walk in behind her.

“Your uncle Sirius will--”

“Sirius?” Buffy interrupted. At Dumbledore’s nod, she snorted. “And I thought I had it bad. At least I don’t sound like I’m Snow White’s missing dwarf.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrow in amusement but made no comment. “As I was saying,” he said, or whispered actually, which was strange. “Your Uncle Sirius will be so pleased to see you. I should warn you, however, that--”

He trailed off as some _thing_ came shuffling into the hallway.

Buffy flinched, but to her credit, did nothing else, despite the fact that her instincts were telling her to pummel the extremely pale, extremely large-nosed Gremlin in front of her into next Tuesday. 

Clearly there was one heck of learning curve with magic, but she was finally starting to catch on. 

“Kreacher,” Dumbledore said in polite greeting.

Kreacher just ignored him. His eyes were on Buffy, staring at her with strangest expression on his face -- though in his defense, his entire face was strange to her.

“It is you,” it croaked at her in this deep, warbly voice.

“Um, yeah, it is me,” she said slowly. Then, recognizing her own rudeness, she held out her hand in an effort to salvage the situation. “I’m Buffy, Buffy Summers.”

It was the wrong thing to do. Kreacher recoiled from her hand as if it were diseased.

“Filthy half-blood does not touch Kreacher!” he hissed.

As soon the words were out, he froze, a look of horror on his face as his eyes began to bulge. Buffy almost thought he was choking. Before she could think about how to apply the Heimlich to something that clearly didn’t appreciate her touch, he let out the loudest, most mournful sound.

“Master Regulus, please forgive Kreacher for treating your own so rudely!” he wailed. “Kreacher did not mean to treat the Miss so. Half-blood though she is, she is yours, and Kreacher is honored to serve her.”

Then he began to bash his head against the wall.

“Kreacher, stop it,” Dumbledore ordered in the sternest voice Buffy had ever heard him use.

His next words were drowned out, however, when the red curtains flew open.

“HOW DARE YOU SULLY MY DARLING REGULUS’ NAME WITH THESE LIES! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU ILL BEGOT OF A WHORE! GET OUT!”

Buffy narrowed her eyes at the woman screaming at her from a portrait frame. Just as she was wondering if a nice hole in the canvas would improve the shrew’s attitude, she felt Dumbledore tap her on the shoulder. Reluctantly, she turned her attention away from the picture.

“Buffy, up the stairs,” Dumbledore mouthed, pointing to the staircase at the right.

With one last warning glance at the portrait, she did as she was told. As she climbed the stairs, she noticed for the first time that Kreacher wasn’t the only gremlin in the house. There were others, or least, there were the _heads_ of others, literally, all of which were mounted on the wall over the staircase. Thankfully, they did _not_ talk to her. Still, Buffy was beginning to think this was a very bad idea.

As soon as she reached the landing, she turned around to tell Dumbledore just that. Before she could say a single word, however, a dark-haired man came barreling around the corner, his face a storm of anger as he made a beeline for the stairs. 

It quickly changed to a look of surprise when he spotted Buffy and Dumbledore standing there. He only just managed to skid to a stop before he sent them all flying down the staircase.

He was tall with long, dark hair. He was also much younger than she had expected, though it was hard to tell since he also looked like he had been to Hell and back and hadn’t quite lived to tell to the tale.

Like Kreacher, he only had eyes for Buffy.

“What-- Is this--” he gasped. 

Dumbledore nodded. “Sirius, may I present to you your niece, Buffy Summers. Buffy, this is your uncle, Sirius Black.”

A giant grin split Sirius’ face. It quickly faded, though, as the racket below them reached unholy proportions. After glancing down at the screaming portrait and the masochistic gremlin, he looked up at Buffy again with a somewhat wry, somewhat pained smile.

“Welcome to the family.”

+++

A/N: There it is, they finally met! Maybe there's hope for Buffy getting a wand before this fic is over with, after all. :) 


	11. Home, Sweet Home

+++

Sirius stared at the girl before him, scarcely able to believe she was finally there before him. Ever since Dumbledore had revealed her existence, he had waited for this moment to come. Now that she was here, however, he was terrified.

What if she rejected him, or worse, what if she had inherited all the abhorrent Black traits and _he_ rejected _her_? How the devil was he to talk to her? Bloody hell, he didn’t even know how to introduce himself, let alone what to say after that. 

_I’m your uncle, Sirius. I can assure you I’m not nearly as awful as the stories say, though I can’t say the same for the rest of our family_ , or _Terribly sorry about your death. I’m glad to see you’re recovering nicely_?

Buffy’s reaction to the madness below did not help matters. She looked as though she were about to bolt. 

Knowing he had to act quickly, he said the first thing that came to mind. 

“Welcome to the family.” 

That seemed to put her at ease. At the very least, it kept her from leaving. It even elicited a smile, however tenuous it was. 

“Uh, thanks?” she replied, nervously clearing her throat. “I think this is the point where I’m supposed to say that you’ve got a lovely home...” 

“It’s bloody awful,” he cut in. 

She blinked, surprised by his blunt criticism. “Well, I was going to go with different. Unique. Special?” she offered as diplomatically as she could. At his look, she rolled her eyes. “Alright, alright, it’s awful. Just remember, you said it first.”

Sirius grinned, the heavy feeling in his chest already starting to lighten. “Fair enough. Would you like a tour of this monstrosity? After all, it will be yours some day.”

Buffy looked ill at this. “Are you serious?”

“Always,” he said solemnly.

She let out a decidedly unladylike snort of laughter at his terrible joke. “Oh my god. You truly are the corny uncle I never had,” she mused. Then she grew thoughtful. “Except now I do.”

+++

“And to conclude our tour, I bring you to our illustrious family tapestry,” Sirius declared, gesturing to the hateful piece of fabric pinned to the wall.

He held his breath as she looked it over. While they had steered clear of any talk about Regulus, sticking mainly to the ‘delightful’ idiosyncrasies of their family home, they could not put it off any longer now that the tour was concluded. Not even Dumbledore could deflect any of the questions she would have, as the old man departed long ago to let them get better acquainted without “a meddling old fool” getting in the way. 

Yet Buffy said nothing. She simply looked at the names and pictures of her ancestors with great interest, even though that very same family had just berated, belittled or flat out ignored her from their family portraits for being an illegitimate half-blood. Sirius himself had threatened to burn their canvases to ash if they didn’t stop their abuse. He still had half a mind to do so, even though they had quieted down after his threat. Buffy, however, had taken it all in stride, merely smiling sweetly at each one -- though he got the distinct impression she had put their faces to memory, along with every insult they slung at her. It struck him that she was doing the same thing now. 

She was more Black than she would ever know. 

“What’s with all the names? I can barely read them. Forget pronouncing them.”

Sirius gave her a wry smile. “It’s a long-standing family tradition to name our children after a star. I, for example, am named after the Dog Star in the constellation Canis Major,” he explained. Then, puffing out his chest in an exaggerated fashion, he added, “We’re part of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, after all, with a lineage extending as far back as the stars in the sky; and equally as majestic and dignified, I might add.”

Buffy smirked. “No wonder those guys on the wall have massive superiority complexes,” she said as she turned her attention back to the tapestry. He noticed the way her eyes lingered on Regulus’ picture, but still she said nothing, choosing instead to look at the space below her father. 

“I’m not on here.”

It was not a question. It was a matter of fact statement, with no trace of longing or anger or even relief. 

With no inkling as how she felt about the situation, he approached the subject delicately. 

“This is an enchanted tapestry. Only legitimate children appear after the naming ceremony has been performed. It just wouldn’t do to air out all our forebears’ dalliances. It would be… _vulgar_.”

Though what he spoke was true, his tone was mocking, showing no love for those who came before him and their hypocritical ways. 

Buffy was nonplussed by this revelation; she merely shrugged her shoulders as she turned back to the tapestry to study it some more. She whirled around to face him, however, when she came upon his name a moment later. 

“Why is your picture burned off?”

It was Sirius’ turn to shrug. “I’m the black sheep of the family, or at least one of them. My poor cousin Andromeda made the cardinal sin of falling in love with a Muggle. I merely refused to embrace the family’s desire to treat all non-Pureblooded wizards as less than equal.”

Buffy frowned, her eyes straying to Regulus’ picture. “But everyone else did.”

Sirius took a deep breath. They had finally arrived at the moment he dreaded most. 

“Yes, for most of his life,” he admitted. “I think in the end, however, Regulus realized the madness he had become involved in and tried to back away. I believe that’s why he was killed.”

Her frown grew deeper. “So this war Dumbledore talked about, he was on the wrong side.”

Sirius nodded but said nothing, giving her time to digest this bit of information about her father. Though he was worried how she would take it, he did not regret telling her. She had had enough deceit and half-truths to last a lifetime. As the silence between them grew longer, however, he felt a twinge of panic. He almost vibrated with relief when she finally spoke; he most certainly needed a glass of fire whiskey. 

“Maybe it’s better I never met him then. We would’ve had to fight each other. Not to mention he would’ve hated my mere existence, not being 100% wizard and all.”

Sirius shook his head, to the surprise of both. “I don’t know about that. For all his faults, Regulus loved his family. That’s how he wound up in this mess in the first place, wanting to please mummy and daddy. He even loved that wretched house elf, Kreacher. I-- I can’t say for certain what he would have done, but I do believe the situation would have played out differently if he had known about you, and not necessarily for the worse.”

It was a stunning thought really, one that he had not entertained until that very moment, but it was one Sirius believed to be true.

Buffy, for her part, was understandably skeptical, though she chose not to contradict him. Instead she simply asked, “What was he like?”

It was a loaded question, Sirius knew. She wanted to know who Regulus was beyond the Death Eater, if he was anything else _but_ that. 

Wanting to answer her as honestly as possible, he thought for a moment, searching his childhood memories of Regulus, ones that had long been subsumed by more recent and significantly less pleasant ones.

“He was the most annoying little prat, truly,” he finally said. “Always following me around when we were younger, asking me incessant questions and copying my every move, at least until he learned that I was not behaving in a manner befitting the firstborn and heir apparent. Confident bugger, too, but then all Blacks are. And Merlin, was he sharp. There wasn’t much he couldn’t puzzle out if he set his mind to it, even if he didn’t always put it to the best use.”

As he spoke about his brother, Sirius realized something; though he would never agree with or forgive many of the decisions Regulus had made, it hadn’t always been bad between them. Now was not the time to reconcile his feelings for his dead brother, however. It was time to look toward the future. 

Hesitantly, he looked at his niece, Regulus’ daughter. “Would you tell me a little about yourself?”

Buffy flinched ever so slightly at his question, though she immediately disguised it with a shrug. “Not much to tell. I am-- _was_ the Slayer. I came, I died, I conquered.”

Sirius felt his heart clench at her response, and not because she chose to reveal nothing about herself. She was so flippant in the way she spoke about her death, too much so. It wasn’t natural. There was trauma lurking deep beneath the surface, but she was too proud, too strong, too wounded to acknowledge it, let alone address it. He was absolutely certain of this, for he spoke of his time in Azkaban the same exact way. 

Knowing this was perhaps his only opportunity to reach out to her, to provide the comfort and understanding he hadn’t allowed anyone to give him, he took her hand in his. “Buffy, I’m so sorry. We all failed you.” 

Her mouth fell open, clearly taken aback by his admission. “How did you fail me? You didn’t even know I existed.”

Sirius took a deep breath as he released her hand. “No, but I never once questioned what my brother may have done to get himself killed. Perhaps if I had, it would have led me to you. I’m afraid I’ll also be nothing but a burden to you from this day forward.”

With that, he told her his whole sordid story; his role in his best friend’s death, his imprisonment in Azkaban, and his subsequent escape. 

“So you see, to the outside world, I’m a traitor and a murderer,” he finished. When Buffy said nothing, he bowed his head. “I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with me, with our entire family. All things considered, it would be best if no one knew who you were, for your own safety. As I understand it, you have a life back in the States, away from this madness, where you won’t be fettered by your father… or by me.”

Sirius fully expected Buffy to walk out of Grimmauld Place and not look back. He told himself he would honour her decision, whatever it was, no matter how painful. To his surprise, however, she shook her head. 

“To the outside world, I’m an arsonist, a juvenile delinquent, and all around mentally unstable,” she said. “If you can deal with that, then I’d say we’re even.”

Astonished by her acceptance, and how easily she gave it, Sirius blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “An arsonist?”

“Yep,” she said cheerily. “I burnt the school gym down during a dance. I mean, it was infested with vampires, but the police didn’t really embrace that explanation. Go figure.”

Sirius threw back his head and laughed. “I think we’re going to get along just fine,” he announced. Then an idea struck him. 

“Would you like to try your hand at some magic?”

+++

It was a brilliant idea of his, really. It gave them the perfect opportunity to get to know each other a bit more without the suffocating presence of Regulus looming over them. For instance, as he helped her through her initial unease with magic and taught her a few basic spells, he learned that she could be just as sharp-tongued as her father. Unlike Regulus, however, her jibes lacked any underlying nastiness and were directed at herself just as much as him. She was also exceedingly clever, perhaps even more so than his brother, with a temper to match. He could see it now as she struggled with the Unlocking Charm.

Sirius bit back his grin as he watched his niece curse when she pointed his wand at the door and nothing happened. They had progressed through the basic levitation and light spells fairly easily, but one was proving to be a challenge for her.

Sirius wasn’t concerned in the slightest, even if it was a spell even first years mastered. While Buffy did have some difficulty with the pronunciation and inflection of the spells themselves, the wand motions that accompanied the spells came almost second nature to her, her muscle memory unparallelled. And when she did get the spell to work correctly, the magic behind it was impressive. Besides, she had only recently come into her magic. It would come in fits and starts until it truly settled. She was also using his wand. Though it would recognize the familial relationship, it would not perform for her as it did him. All things considered, for such a late bloomer -- and a somewhat reluctant one at that -- she was doing marvelously.

Buffy, however, didn’t see it that way. She was getting quite frustrated with herself as she performed the spell yet again, as equally unsuccessful as the last time. He could practically see her temper rising as she stared contemptuously at the door. Before she could do any damage to it, Sirius stepped in.

“Your wand movements are impeccable, but you’re over-thinking the words. Just let them flow,” he coached. 

“Easy for you to say, Mr. ‘my family all has strange names so of course this is easy for me’,” she grumbled. But she took a deep breath and tried again. “ _Alohomora_.”

The lock on the door blasted open. 

“Excellent!” Sirius exclaimed. “You’ll be dueling with the best of them in no time.”

Though she was clearly pleased with herself, she raised her eyebrow at this. “Somehow I’m doubting that, unless I’m allowed to throw the wand at someone.” 

He shook his head. “Nonsense. You just need a proper wand, one that’s your own and responds solely to you.”

A brilliant idea blossomed in his mind then, one that was even better than his idea to teach her magic. 

“Perhaps we could venture out and get you your first wand?”

In the back of his mind, Sirius acknowledged that it was perhaps foolhardy to reveal his Animagus form to her so soon; traveling to Diagon Alley was another matter entirely. He couldn’t resist the opportunity, however, both to leave his miserable house and to spend some more time with his niece. 

Instead of taking him up on his offer like he had hoped, Buffy stared at him in shock, which quickly gave way to hesitation. 

She had not yet made up her mind as to whether she was going to stay, even beyond today, he realized. 

Sirius ruthlessly smothered his disappointment. It had been foolish of him to assume a few magic lessons from a strange old uncle would entice her to stay in London any longer than absolutely necessary. He himself had suggested she keep her distance from him. Just because he so desperately jumped at the chance of having a family once more didn’t mean she would; she already had one. It wasn’t as if he were completely alone, either. He had Harry, and--

“Aren’t you a wanted man? I thought you couldn’t leave house.”

Sirius blinked, not at all expecting that kind of response. He was nothing if not fast on his feet, however. “Yes, if I were to venture out as myself. As luck would have it, I have an alternate means of appearing in public.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Why don’t you do that all the time then? Why the house arrest?”

Sirius coughed. “Well, you see, there are differing opinions on how safe it is for me to disguise myself…”

“By differing opinions, you mean you and Dumbledore,” she said perceptively. 

He did not reply; it wasn’t necessary. Instead of recoiling from the idea like most would, however, a slow grin spread across her face. 

“So what exactly do you have in mind?”

Sirius felt his heart leap. From the way she spoke, he knew that, as long as his plan didn’t sound too far-fetched, she was game, whether or not Dumbledore -- or anyone else, for that matter -- approved. More importantly, though, he saw a sparkle in her eye as she spoke, one that had been wholly absent until now.

Sirius vowed right then and there that whatever her decision was, wherever she decided to go, he would do his damnedest to keep her safe and chase away those demons that so obviously haunted her, regardless of the consequences.

+++

A/N: So… it’s been forever since I updated. I’m not sure if anyone is still reading this -- and I can’t blame you if you’re not, considering the length of time between chapters -- but if you are, I hope this chapter didn’t disappoint! 


	12. Reality Bites

A/N: I’m absolutely blown away by the response to the last chapter. I had no idea so many people were still following this fic. As a thank you, I churned this chapter out as quickly as I could (which for me, is like light speed!). :D

+++

Sirius Black was a broken man.

Buffy would have to have been blind not to see it. Sure, there were moments when she could see who he had been before all this, but they didn’t last; his wounds were too deep, and after hearing his story, she understood why. On some level, she could even relate. They may not have had the same exact pain, but they had both gotten raw deals and suffered because of it. 

Strangely enough, this made her feel comfortable around him, maybe because they didn’t have the history, only the hurt. He didn’t expect anything from her, and vice versa, but yet he got Buffy without her having to say a word. Or maybe it was because she didn’t have to pretend she was fine when she wasn’t; she could just _be_. 

Whatever it was, it kept her in the house with him instead of running away from the rest of the Blacks, like her instincts were telling her to do.

That didn’t mean she was ready to share all her deepest, darkest with the guy. And it definitely didn’t mean she was about to go and change her name to Buffy Black; truth be told, she would never be ready for that one. While she had finally accepted that Regulus Black was her father, Hank Summers was still her dad and always would be. All in all, though, it was safe to say that she was warming up to her uncle. She was also warming up to the idea that there might be more for her in London than just some sightseeing tours.

Dumbledore knew this would happen, too. That’s why he made her come here in the first place, and she resented him for it. Agreeing to go wand shopping was just as much about sticking it to him as it was about spending more time with Sirius. Well, that, and her curiosity for magic had officially been piqued. 

Coming from the Hellmouth, Buffy should’ve been more cautious about the whole thing but it was too exhilarating to deny. Using the wand had been… well, pretty fantastic. There was no other way to say it. It was like having Slayer powers without the death and destiny attached. It made her feel… free. It also made her feel like she had some control over her life, over her magic, over everything. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to get a wand of her own -- to a point, anyway.

As excited as she was, she wasn’t completely oblivious to the risks when it came to Sirius. She also sensed that he was desperate to get out of the house, not that she could blame him. She’d go stir crazy if she were in house arrest, too, especially _this_ house of horrors. He craved the same freedom she did. Still, she wasn’t about to walk into a situation blind. She needed to know what Sirius meant when he said he had a disguise. 

It was not what she expected.

Buffy shook her head in disbelief as she stared down at the big, black dog before her. 

“This is your disguise? It’s a little on the nose, don’t you think? I can’t believe no one’s ever put two and two together and got ‘this is obviously Sirius Dog Star _Black_ ’.”

Sirius looked down, the guilt written all over his doggy face as he avoided her gaze. 

Buffy felt her jaw drop. “Are you kidding me? People _do_ recognize you? Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all. I really don’t want to be the one that gets you sent back to Alcatraz.”

In an instant, he transformed back, an amused smile on his face. “Azkaban,” he corrected her. Then he cleared his throat, the smile disappearing. “Only a few know I’m an Animagus, and the chances they’ll be in Diagon Alley are small. More importantly, I know who _they_ are. I’ll be able to smell them long before I see them.”

He was trying to play it cool, like it was no big, but Buffy knew better. Underneath the calm exterior, he was like a dog who knew his bone was just about to be taken away, no pun intended. 

Though Buffy felt bad, it wasn’t enough to convince her.

“I don’t know,” she replied slowly. “It seems too risky. Could you at least turn into a different animal?”

Sirius shook his head. “A wizard cannot choose an Animagus form at will. It’s simply an extension of me -- a manifestation of characteristics, if you will -- suited to my personality, where I retain my own mind and abilities. Theoretically, I could Transfigure myself into something else, but I would become that animal in every sense, which means I would never be able to turn back, as I’d lack the wits to do so.”

“So that means making yourself smaller or a different breed is out,” Buffy guessed. As Sirius’ nod, she sighed. “Well, what about staying human and just using a Glamour or something like that?” 

Again, Sirius shook his head. “Glamours hide small details. They do not change appearances convincingly enough to work as a disguise. There’s always Polyjuice Potion, of course, but I don’t have access to it.”

Buffy frowned, trying to think of a way around this major road block. He couldn’t magically change his form in any way… which meant they wouldn’t see it coming if he somehow could. But how could he do it?

The answer popped into her mind a moment later. It was so simple, almost _too_ simple. 

“Bleach,” she announced. “We can use bleach.”

Sirius frowned. “Bleach?”

“You know, a strong-smelling chemical that strips all the color out of your hair -- or fur, as the case may be,” she explained. “I’m not saying it’s going to work, but it may be worth a shot.”

“I’m willing to give it a go,” Sirius agreed, obviously intrigued by her idea. 

Buffy grinned. “Is there a pharmacy nearby?” 

It was a little crazy to go wandering the streets of London, she knew, like she was taking a page right out of Sirius’ impetuous book. But a short trip to the familiar wouldn’t be a bad thing, and if she happened to pass a phone on the way, she could call Willow -- or maybe her dad. She even had money on her to do it, seeing as she hadn’t changed clothes for two whole days and therefore still had the credit card she had grabbed on her way to Giles’ apartment.

First order of business was finding a pharmacy, though, because it was clear from his silence that Sirius had no clue what she was talking about. 

Buffy rolled her eyes. For as little as she knew about the magical world, it was clear wizards knew nothing outside of it. “Nevermind. I’m sure I can find one around here. I mean, we’re in the middle of a major city.”

“Right then, shall we go?”

It was not the response she had expected, and it threw a major kink in her plans.

“I wasn’t thinking you’d come with,” she carefully replied. “You might be recognized, remember?”

Sirius shook his head. “No Death Eater would be caught dead in the Muggle world, unless they were on a killing spree. If that should happen, my being spotted would be the least of our problems. Regardless, I can’t in good conscious let you roam the streets alone.”

He had a point. She didn’t know the area -- at all -- and the risk of exposure did seem low. After all, she had just witnessed firsthand Sirius’ lack of familiarity with the non-wizard world, and he was someone who didn’t think all non-magicky people were cockroaches beneath his feet. Besides, this little trip could help soften the blow if the bleach thing didn’t work out. She would just call Willow and her dad later. 

“Okay,” she relented. “Though maybe we should decide what I’m supposed to call you when you’re a dog first? ‘Sirius’ doesn’t seem like the smartest move, even if we’re just going out in my world.”

Sirius nodded in agreement. “Snuffles, perhaps?” he suggested. 

Buffy snorted. “I don’t think I could keep a straight face if I called you that. How about Midnight?”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “What was that you said before about being too on the nose?”

She made a face at him. “Alright, there’s no originality points there, I admit it. I suppose you’d like something cool like Cujo.”

“Getting better,” he agreed. 

“If you only knew,” she said dryly. Another name popped into mind, one that worked pretty well, especially if she used the bleach correctly. “How about Lassie?”

Sirius’ mouth dropped open, a look of horror on his face. “You want to call me a lassie?”

Buffy grinned. “Lassie, it is, then.”

Sirius arched his eyebrow. “This conversation is not over, by _any_ means, but we really must leave. Albus said he’d return in a few hours, and I want to make certain we have time to spare, which reminds me… KREACHER!” he bellowed.

The little gnome from the hallway immediately popped into view, and he did not look pleased at being called. Seriously, if looks could’ve killed, Buffy would’ve been down an uncle. When the little creature caught sight of her, however, he froze. 

Remembering their first meeting all too well, Buffy prepared herself for a repeat performance, but he just stood there, gaping at her. Just as she started to relax, however, he spoke, his words stabbing her like a knife to the gut.

“Yes, Master,” he croaked, his eyes flitting nervously back and forth between Sirius and Buffy.

“Do not, under any circumstances, tell anyone we’re not here inside the house while we’re gone,” Sirius curtly ordered. Glancing at Buffy, he added, “While you’re at it, find a set of robes that will fit Buffy, one that she can wear to Diagon Alley.”

“Master wants me to fetch robes for the Miss?” Kreacher asked, his eyes doing that weird bulgy thing again.

“Yes, yes, that’s what I said,” Sirius said dismissively. 

Kreacher looked beyond conflicted by this, his expression changing from loathing to anxiety, depending on who he was looking at. 

All he said, though, was “Yes, Master,” as he gave Sirius an awkward little bow, almost like his mind was telling him one thing but his body was telling him another. He turned to leave, but not before giving Buffy one last gut-wrenching look.

Buffy was already extremely uncomfortable with the whole situation; this, however, was the tipping point. She blurted out the first thing that came to mind in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

“Thank you!”

Somehow, this only made things worse. Now the little elf looked like he was about to cry. Before she could try and fix it, though, he disappeared. 

“He’s a beastly creature,” Sirius muttered. “Hasn’t been right in the head since Regulus died.”

His gaze was still on the doorway, where Kreacher had just been, so he didn’t notice the way Buffy stared at him as some serious doubts began creeping into her mind. He heard her when she spoke, though, loud and clear. 

“Is he your slave?”

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly with her question, the rapport they had built suddenly hanging on by a thread. Sirius knew it, too. Slowly, and with more than a little anxiety, he turned toward her, the color rapidly draining from his face. 

“Yes, I suppose, though it’s not quite as… brutal as it sounds,” he cautiously replied. “House elves are bound to the families they serve until they die or are freed. Kreacher has served the Blacks for many, many years.” 

It was just as bad as learning she was related to magical supremacists, though if Buffy thought about it, the two went hand in hand. Either way, she needed to sit down. Thankfully, the closest couch was just a few feet away. Making a beeline for it, she quickly sank down on the cushions as she tried to process what she had just learned and reconcile it in her mind. 

It was too much to ask. 

“I don’t know how to take this,” she finally admitted. 

Sirius, who had been watching her nervously up until this point, took this as a cue that she wanted to talk and quickly sat down next to her. “As I said, it’s… more complicated than it appears. House elves are extremely loyal to their families. I know this sounds terrible, but they _wish_ to serve them. Most consider it a grave dishonour if they are freed. Kreacher, for instance, would never leave this house, not willingly at least. He worships my mother, and his loyalty to Regulus has never wavered, even beyond death.”

Buffy frowned. A happy slave was still a slave. Besides, as far as she could tell, Kreacher was not a happy little guy, which brought her to the next issue. 

“If Kreacher likes being here, then why is he so cranky? And why are you so… mean?”

Sirius had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “In truth, he and I never got along. Kreacher has the same blood purity beliefs as my family. He has no love for half-bloods or Muggleborns, nor for blood traitors like myself, and he doesn’t bother hiding it. It’s gotten worse since I’ve been incarcerated, probably because he had no one to talk to except the portrait of my dear mother.”

Buffy shuddered, remembering all too well the ‘welcome’ she had received when she had first stepped into the house, though Kreacher’s reaction to her made a lot more sense now. 

She also remembered something else. 

“So the elf heads on the wall, they’re there because…”

“It’s considered a great honour among the elves in the Black household, one that Kreacher aspires to. I think he’s determined to outlive me for that very reason, as he knows I think it’s a ghastly tradition that I refuse to uphold,” Sirius said, his nose wrinkling in distaste. Then he took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eye. “I won’t lie and say I’m entirely against house elves working in wizarding households. I hope you’ll have the opportunity to meet a few of them, like those at Hogwarts, so you can see why before you think too poorly of me. As for Kreacher, please know that I would free him if I could, but as I said, he would never leave, and… well, at this point, he knows too much about me and our efforts in the coming war.”

He could’ve been feeding her a line to appease her. For the short time she’d known Sirius, though, she got the sense that he wasn’t one who sugarcoated things, even when it was in his interest to do so. It was one of the things she liked best about him. Even if she took him at his word, however, it was still a lot to take. 

Buffy pinched the bridge of her nose. “This whole thing is so messed up,” she muttered. 

For some reason, this tickled Sirius. “I know a girl about your age whom you would get along famously with. I have no doubt that together you two could change the world. It’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility, either, seeing as she’s best mates with my godson,” he said. His grin grew wider. “Merlin, I would give 10 galleons to see _his_ reaction to you.”

His humor quickly evaporated, though, as the seriousness of the current situation came crashing back. 

“Perhaps this isn’t the best time to venture outside,” he sighed. ”Perhaps we’re rushing things a bit. Perhaps _I’m_ rushing things.” 

He leaned back against the couch, looking dejected but resigned. 

Torn between emotions herself, Buffy bit her lip. “Maybe not,” she hedged. “I mean, I need to get a wand one way or the other.” 

To her surprise, Sirius didn’t jump on this, even though he had just as much riding on it as she did. Instead, he looked more uncertain than ever. 

It was this reaction that made up Buffy’s mind once and for all. Her uncle was a good man; reckless, sure, but when it came down to it, he put her interests first, even at the cost of his own. Though everything was far from resolved as far as house elves went, she was willing to let it go for the moment, at least until she learned more. If anything, it was a good reminder that it wasn’t all sunshine and roses in this world. 

Surprise, surprise.

+++

The walk to the pharmacy had started off a little tense. As they put more and more distance between them and Grimmauld Place, however, the mood began to lighten. By the time they found a Boots Pharmacy a few blocks away, both Buffy and Sirius felt a lot better. Sirius, especially, was enjoying himself; preening when a stranger complimented him, tail wagging as he explored around him -- even growling with gusto when a cute guy tried to start a conversation with Buffy, much to her annoyance.

His enthusiasm noticeably lessened, however, when he sniffed the bottles of bleach and peroxide through the plastic bag Buffy was carrying, his muzzle wrinkling in disgust. Even though he was still in dog form, she could easily read the expression on his face.

He was beginning to have second thoughts about her plan. 

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Oh, relax, Lassie. I grew up in LA. Bleaching your hair is like a rite of passage there. You’re just cranky because you had to put a leash on. And because I left you outside when I went in the pharmacy.”

Sirius huffed at this, glaring at the offending object tethered around his neck. 

Buffy shrugged. “Well, it’s not like we can afford getting nabbed for breaking the leash law. And there’s no way I could claim you’re my service dog. You’re not even close to well-behaved enough for that, as the guy you scared off can testify.”

That pleased him to no end. Maybe to drive home her point, he looked up at her with what could only be described as mischievous. Next thing Buffy knew, she was being pulled down the street, Sirius straining at the leash as he barreled down the sidewalk. 

Instead of fighting it -- or yanking him to an abrupt stop -- she let herself be pulled along, easily keeping pace with him and enjoying the opportunity to burn off the remnants of her tension. Sirius looked pretty happy himself, his tongue lolling out as he galloped down the street.

They both became a little bit more somber as they drew closer to 12 Grimmauld Place. When they reached the stairs, Sirius came to a dead stop. There was no putting it off, though, so Buffy brushed by him and climbed the steps. 

“Come on,” she murmured. “We can’t stay out here forever. Time to get back to reality."

Though he let out a small whine, Sirius didn’t argue, slowly trudging behind her. When they were both at the front stoop, Buffy turned the door handle and pushed. 

The hallway of Grimmauld Place looked even gloomier the second time around. Buffy had to practically force herself inside. She couldn’t imagine what Sirius was feeling. They both soldiered on, though, tiptoeing past the portrait of his mother. 

The plan was to go straight back to the kitchen. As she passed by the drawing room, however, she stopped short.

Sitting in one of the chairs there, looking straight at them, was Dumbledore. Though he didn’t look mad -- Buffy wasn’t even sure he possessed the ability -- his eyes definitely weren’t twinkling anymore. 

Buffy tightened her grip on her bag of goodies and gulped. 

Busted.

+++

“My Lord, we’ve received a petition for an audience with you. It’s from the vampire who came seeking a treatise with you--”

“Kill him when he arrives,” Voldemort replied, waving his hand dismissively. 

Wormtail grew pale. “Yes, My Lord,” he said nervously. “But… he said he has information you’ll most certainly want to hear about… about a new threat.”

“A vampire knows of a threat to me before I do?” Voldemort hissed, his eyes glowing red.

Wormtail shrank under his gaze but wisely said nothing. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Voldemort finally spoke again. “I’ll give him his audience,” he conceded. “When will he arrive?”

Wormtail whimpered, knowing his master would not like his reply and fearful of his reaction. “It will take a few days. He must go through rather… convoluted means to get here, due to his nature.”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes in disgust. “For his sake, he’d best not be wasting my time. Of course, on the other hand, it’s been quite some time since we’ve had some amusement, hasn’t it?”

+++

A/N: Sorry to spend so much time on Kreacher, but I didn’t see him and his position as something Buffy could just gloss over. Besides, it may be important later on… ;) 


End file.
